


dangerous and disquieting

by fuechsli



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrew might be a bit ooc, Angst, Basically everything for which there's a warning, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt, I apologize in advance for everything, I'll add more when I come to it, Implied/Referenced Dissociative Identity Disorder, It's Raven!Neil and All For the Game - what do you expect?, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Raven!Neil, and Nathan too, riko is his own warning, very slow paced and thus very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9626930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuechsli/pseuds/fuechsli
Summary: The kid looks up to him abruptly, pupils blown wide like those of a startled rabbit.“Well, if that isn’t a surprise,” Andrew muses, his eyes locked onto the stark black four etched onto Nathaniel Wesninski’s cheekbone, creating a brutal contrast with the rest of his bruised face.Nathaniel Wesninski smiles a crooked smile, revealing that even his teeth are painted bloody.“Hi,” he says, as if he wasn’t currently leaving permanent stains on Andrew’s favourite bean bag with his fucking vital body fluid. “I’d shake your hand, but...” Nathaniel Wesninski lifts a hand, bloody and bruised, some fingers looking grotesquely out of shape. He clenches them anyway and winces when the pain seems to hit him, but his expression gives nothing away.He’s a  p r o b l e m.***In which Mary's first attempt at stealing her son away has failed and she only succeeds five years later. But the damage is done and the lack of running-experience leads to Nathan catching up with them.What we see here is the aftermath of that and the hell that is Nathaniel Wesninski's life—at least up to the point when he meets the Foxes and slowly becomes another person under the name of Neil Josten.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off: yes, the summary sucks. Yes, I'll probably change it a hundred times until I'm happy with it. Therefore: Summary and title are subject to change.  
> Then, I’m not quite sure yet where this is going, but the idea has lurked around in my head for long enough now, so I've decided to give it a chance and just write it.  
> Also, I try to follow canon as closely as possible, but there are I few changes that will come up later in the story. I'll just point out the main ones here:  
> \- Nathaniel wasn't taken away at age ten. Mary only succeeded to take him from Evermore at age fifteen. They were caught then one and a half year later, and Nathaniel joined the Ravens again at age seventeen, when Jean's already there. Therefore, and because I like the Japanese meaning of the number four, he's not the number three as in many other Raven!Neil fics.  
> \- The year when Kevin signs with the Foxes as a striker is the first year that there's also a banquet at the end of championships (so, that's at some point between spring break and summer, I think. I hope. If not, let's just pretend it is.) That's basically the first time Nathaniel meets the Foxes.  
> Everything else will hopefully be made clear as the story proceeds.  
> Was there anything else I wanted to say?  
> Ah, yes. It may be that Andrew seems out of character. If you notice anything drastic, (please) tell me so I can try to change it. I want to stay as realistic as possible.  
> Um. I’m not new to the fandom, but I’m new here on AO3 and also English is not my first language. So if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me, I’m grateful for every help I can get!  
> I think that's it, then. I hope I didn't already chase you away with all my babbling.  
> Have fun with the first chapter!

It’s three o’clock and the room is silent. That’s nothing unusual per se, but Andrew wouldn’t be awake if that were the case. Years spent in foster homes have taught him to startle out of sleep the moment his ears pick up the faintest disturbance in normalcy.

So, he stays still, his back pressed flat against the wall, breathing heavy and eyes wide open, straining to see in the darkness. His fingers inch under his armbands for a knife, and only when they touch cool metal he manages to shake off the irrational fear that he’s back there, manages to convince himself that he’s no longer helpless.

Still, his rapid heartbeat spreads adrenaline throughout his whole body as hundreds of possible scenarios whirl through his mind, hundreds of dangerous reasons for him to have woken up because nothing is ever simple or easy for Andrew Minyard, not even waking up. He forces his breathing to stay calm, sleep-like in order not to give away his awareness of the situation. People like to think they’re sneaky, after all, like to surprise their victims in their sleep, and Andrew would not give them this satisfaction, never again.

A light snore pierces through the silence and Andrew jerks, ripped out of the dangerous headspace he’s been falling into. Nevertheless, he can’t help himself and sends a glare his cousin’s way for catching him off guard at a time like this. Then, though, the silence resumes, the sounds of his—he refuses to call it a family—of his responsibilities the only sound in the room. 

It continues like this for another few minutes, time seeming to stretch endlessly as Andrew strains his senses to figure out what had him startling awake. But when there’s nothing else to hear except the rustling of sheets as Aaron moves in his sleep and the only light in the room is from the moon shining in through cracks in the shutter, Andrew’s fingers loosen a fraction around the handle of his knife and he lets his body relax muscle for tense muscle. 

Then – a clank, a hissed curse from the direction of the living room and Andrew’s pulse spikes again. There’s cold stone floor underneath his bare feet before he even realises he’s moved, and he’s across the room in a blink, every fibre in his body pulled taut. Inches from the doorway he stills, each of his hands desperately clutching a knife, and he tries to recall what Renee has said about–

A pained noise echoes into the hallway and with a small part of his mind Andrew curses himself. Wasn’t he supposed to see if everyone’s alright before heading straight to the source of potential danger?

The rest of him doesn’t care, though, it’s too late now anyway and he has to act before there’s something even worse happening. Taking only shallow breaths, Andrew moves forward slowly, pushes open the bedroom door as quietly as possible, trying to assess the situation. He’s ready to face the worst even though he doesn’t know what would be the worst and, damn, those pills messed with his head even when he was off them at night and–

“Oh.” Movement frozen once again, he blinks at the scene that greets him in the living room and then blinks again, his usually sharp mind not quite catching up.   
There’s... a boy, he thinks. And blood. So much blood that Andrew absently mulls over the probability with which Nicky would throw up were he to see this. But he’s not here, and Andrew simply blinks again as he lets his gaze wander over the slumped figured lying in one of their bean bags. 

It’s only when he sees this mangled chest heaving with strained breaths that Andrew is able to move again. And it’s only when he’s two steps further into the room that he truly realises what’s going on here. 

There’s a bleeding boy in their living room. One that definitely is not a Fox. And yet he’s here. Bleeding. Onto Andrew’s fucking bean bag. 

The fuck?

A wheezing cough finally spurs Andrew into action, allows his to regain his composure as he marches out into the living room, coming to a stop a few paces in front of the boy. He’s about to put away one of his knives so he has a free hand when the kid looks up to him abruptly, his pupils blown wide like those of a startled rabbit.

The way he eyes Andrew’s blades, though, has nothing in common with the flight animal. Andrew can see his muscles tensing despite the pain he must be in, can see the way his gaze gets sharper as he judges Andrew’s arm’s reach and his stance, as he shifts his own weight on the bag to get into the best position to either duck or attack. Andrew also doesn’t miss the way the boy’s fingers twitch at his side, as if wanting to reach for something that’s not there anymore.

A few tense seconds pass in which neither of the boys moves until the intruder eventually grits his teeth and lifts his head to meet Andrew’s stare.  
Andrew hasn’t taken his medication for the night but, in that moment, he feels the urge to grin maniacally anyways. This is insane.

“Well, if that isn’t a surprise,” Andrew muses, his eyes locked onto the stark black four etched onto Nathaniel Wesninski’s cheekbone, creating a brutal contrast with the rest of his bruised face.  
Nathaniel Wesninski smiles a crooked smile, revealing that even his teeth are painted bloody.

“Hi,” he says, as if he wasn’t currently leaving permanent stains on Andrew’s favourite bean bag in Andrew’s living room with his fucking vital body fluid. “I’d shake your hand, but...” Nathaniel Wesninski lifts a hand, bloody and bruised, one or two fingers looking grotesquely out of shape. He clenches them anyway and winces when the pain seems to hit him, but his facial expression gives nothing away. His gaze never leaves Andrew’s. 

Andrew quirks an eyebrow, unwilling to admit that he’s rendered speechless, and even more unwilling to admit that he actually longs for the dulled haze of his drugs at the moment, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with this right now and like that. And since he’s been up for quite some time now, the withdrawal symptoms also make themselves known, the queasiness in his stomach and the trembling in his fingers as he closes them around his knives.

Nathaniel Wesninski shrugs when Andrew doesn’t manage to come up with an appropriate answer, and then proceeds to talk to him as though they haven’t met before, as though this situation wasn’t completely ridiculous. “I know it’s not quite polite to come in without knocking, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate the disturbance either way, so I just thought I’d chill here until one of you wakes up and… well, that’s about how far I’ve come with my planning. I… didn’t really think, you see.”

Andrew snorts despite himself. “Yeah, I can see that. You just thought you’d chill here? And give my bean bag a repainting, or what? I’m really not fond of blood on my things, I’ll have you know. Especially dirty Raven blood. Care to explain?”

Nathaniel Wesninski actually has the grace to look sheepish as he gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Oh, yeah, about that. I think I pulled some of my stitches when I tripped over… whatever the fuck that is.” He waves a mangled hand in the vague direction of the television and Andrew is pretty sure that his brother and cousin have left their game controllers lying around again. What did he do to deserve this?

“That’s not what I meant, birdie,” Andrew says, trying to sum up a patience he doesn’t have. He puts away one knife and flips the other between his fingers, noting with some odd satisfaction the shudder that runs through Nathaniel Wesninski’s body at the sight. “I want you to explain what you’re doing here and why you’re not in the Nest with the rest of them. You should have realised that I’m taking my promises very seriously, so if you still think you can get Kevin to come back after what happened the last time you are very, very delusional.”

“I’m not… That’s not what I… Fuck!” Nathaniel Wesninski’s attempt at a protest breaks off when another wheezing cough crawls its way up his throat and he clutches at his sides as if desperately trying to hold himself together. The coughing shakes up his whole body, probably causing a whole lot of pain to flare up if the agonized whimpers that pass his lips are anything to go by, and when it recedes, the hand he’s pressed against his mouth comes away bloody.

“Fuck,” Nathaniel Wesninski whispers with a hoarse voice. “Fuck,” he says again, this time a little louder, before he looks up to Andrew. The look in his eyes is wild as he asks, “Do you think I pierced a lung? I think I pierced a lung.” He laughs a little breathlessly, a little madly. “I mean, I know what broken ribs feel like, but it’s never… it’s never been that bad. He’s always angry, especially since… But I didn’t think… He was so, so angry.” He trails off, his eyes tightly shut as he curls in on himself, seeming to have forgotten where he is as he starts rocking back and forth, taken to muttering to himself in French.

“Fuck,” Andrew agrees silently, his eyes never leaving the mess on his bean bag even as he carefully retreats to the kitchen where his phone is charging.

He’s just about to click on Coach’s contact when the bedroom door creaks open and Kevin sticks his head out, bed hair messily falling into his eyes. “Andrew?,” he asks sleepily. “What’s going on? I heard voices. Why aren’t you in bed?”

Andrew curses under his breath, knowing that under no circumstances he can allow Kevin to see the guest in their living room. Deciding that for the moment, Nathaniel Wesninski poses no threat, he crosses the room to shove Kevin back to bed, ignoring his complaints about the rough treatment and instead telling him to go back to sleep, it’s nothing.

Thankfully Kevin is no use in the morning until his second cup of coffee, so he’s definitely no use at three thirty and obediently settles back in bed with the half-hearted, mumbled insistence that Andrew catch his sleep too, otherwise he’ll suck at the gym tomorrow. And then he’s out like a light.

Andrew heaves a relieved breath and returns to the living room where he finds Nathaniel Wesninski caught up in another coughing fit and he thinks that maybe he wasn’t so wrong with the suspicion of a punctured lung.

“The fuck do you want at this time of the night, Minyard?” Wymack’s greeting is as charming as always.

“Hello to you too, Coach. You know, I don’t care what people say about me, and they have a lot of theories about my cruelty and emotionlessness—”

“If you called because you’re having an existential crisis, then you should know that I’m not the right person for that. You have Bee’s number, right?”

“Oh Coach, you should know by now that I don’t do existential crisis, and I definitely wouldn’t talk to you about it, rest assured. You’re distracting me, though. Point of me calling is a Raven infestation in my dorm.”

“A what?” Wymack splutters and only now seems to properly wake up. “What are you tal—?”

Andrew ignors him. “I suggest you fetch Abby and come here. Because as I said, people can say many things about me, but not that I let a poor little birdie die in my living room just because I can't be bothered. Yeah? Great. See you in a few.”

Andrew hangs up and goes back to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for his guest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel wakes up and panics and freaks out a little. Much.  
> That's basically it.  
> 3k of Pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I honestly didn't expect such positive responses. Thank you!
> 
> And because I somehow can't believe that my writing is really that good, here's a fair warning: lots of long sentences and lots of angst.  
> This is basically Nathaniel remembering stuff and having general anxiety, I don't even know what I was thinking. It just happened (?) and I kinda liked it (?), but also kinda not (?).  
> There’s not much action happening in this chapter, but there will be all the more drama in the next one, I promise.  
> Oh, and I think/hope that I'll actually manage a weekly update. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for everything that could have happened to Nathaniel in the past (at the Nest, in Baltimore and everywhere in-between), but there’s nothing explicit, I think. Otherwise, just tell me and I’ll make sure to add it!

Light reflecting off of a sharpened cleaver blinds Nathaniel momentarily, shots reverberate in his ears, deafeningly loud, and the taste of blood, gunmetal and a chocked-off cry fills his mouth, threatening to suffocate him as he fights for a way out of the situation.

Faces seem to loom over him, only to disappear into foggy nothingness.

There’s the shocking contrast of red hair and icy blue eyes, so much like a more sinister version of his own that a shiver runs down his spine and fear lodges in his throat. There’s his mother’s worn face, her hair a badly died shock of platinum blonde, her mouth left hanging wide open in a muted scream even as Lola hacks off the limbs of her unconscious body. There’s the number one written in ink on skin, a cruel smile distorting Asian features, a crueler laugh tumbling past blood-smeared lips.

He’s trapped in a nightmare from which there’s no escape. These memories haunt him even during the day.

When it registers in his subconscious that this has to be a dream because his mother and Riko just don’t co-exist like that, Nathaniel once again subjects himself to the only thing he knows will make himself wake up. Everything in him struggles against the idea that goes against his very nature, but he has long ago accepted that it’s the only way and that reality always is at least a little better than this.

So when he suddenly finds himself trapped in an all too familiar basement with only Lola’s red lips, Lola’s knives and Lola’s – _too much, please stop, no!_ – touch for company, Nathaniel forces his body to go pliant where he’s shackled to the floor, forces himself to ignore the shadows that linger around the edges of the room, each one a nightmare in their own might. Lola’s grin gets sharper and blood dribbles down her chin when she comes for him, blades at the ready. It’s a too familiar scene for Nathaniel to be able to truly stay calm, but he won’t let the nightmare take possession of him again and so he breathes through the ice freezing up his chest, one last time before he abruptly sits up, and then relishes in the feeling of Lola’s knife splitting skin and muscle until it meets his heart and kills him. It’s much more painless than his real death probably will ever be.

Then there’s a gasp lingering on his lips, a cry lodged in his throat, as it always is in nights like these, but Nathaniel doesn’t let himself make a noise. He can’t ever let himself make a noise, can’t let himself show the weakness he so desperately tries to hide.

When eventually his breathing begins to even out, Nathaniel finds himself covered in a film of cold sweat and his body throbs and pulses in places he didn’t realize could hurt so much. The next breath he takes comes in ragged breaths and through a sore throat, and Nathaniel thinks he can remember Riko strangling him to the point of losing consciousness, but he can’t be too sure. Everything is kind of a blur and his head feels strangely light, come to think of it.

Routine makes him take account of the symptoms he has before he even opens his eyes and possibly alerts others of his wakefulness. It’s always easier to face the day when he knows what condition he’ll be in to do so. When he knows how much he can risk pissing Riko off.

Today, Nathaniel feels exceptionally awful, and when he tries to remember what had Riko in such a hissy fit he realizes with a sickening jolt that he can’t remember a single thing of what happened in the last who-knows-how-long. His breath hitches, but he forces himself to think things through and take stock of himself before reacting rashly.

Nathaniel mentally notes the unnatural relaxation of his limbs, the fuzziness of his mind, the light-headedness and overall numbness. He moves his toes and they do so without problems, rubbing softly against bed sheets.

This is not how one of Riko’s drug-experiments would feel like, but it’s achingly familiar nonetheless. His heart pounds faster. It takes some time to recognize and place the effects because it’s been so long since Nathaniel was allowed to have this.

When he manages to do it, though, the suspicion that dawns on him is so much worse than he’d expected. His breathing becomes shallow and wheezy; he has to bite his lip to stop himself from making any noise.

Painkillers.

He’s high on painkillers.

The panic that freezes up his chest at the realization is worse than the nightmare, worse than the pain that filters through the drug-haze.

Riko never allows his toys to use painkillers. Ever.

So what the hell has happened? Where is he? Why does he...? What has he…? How did…? Why can’t he _move_?

Nathaniel’s next inhale is so sharp that it burns in his throat and he chokes, his upper body shakes with the force of every wracking cough, the formerly dull pain flares up and almost blinds him and then the muscles in his fingers spasm and he clenches them in bed sheets silkier than anything he’s ever touched and–

He breathes.

He’s alive.

Seconds pass and those two facts don’t change despite everything. It frees something in his chest, and when he tries to open his eyes again, he manages.

It only takes seconds to take in the room he’s situated in, but that doesn’t mean that he’s able to make any sense of it. Nathaniel futilely searches for clues on how to proceed from here on, on what Riko might expect from him. It’s beyond his current capabilities to comprehend what is going on.

His bed sheets are of a faint pink color with white floral patterns instead of the expected red-and-black ones. The overhead light consists of silvery spirals and seems to be turned off, which contradicts the fact that the room is brightly lit. Aside from the bed, the only pieces of furniture are a small dresser with a flower vase placed on top of it and a wooden, probably antique vanity. Two of the three walls which Nathaniel can see from his position are painted a creamy white, and the third one is adorned with a windowsill and its complementary window.

There’s a window. A motherfucking window with fucking view of a shitty beautiful, blooming backyard. It’s day out. The light in the room actually comes from the sun. A bird flies by the window and Nathaniel can faintly hear its cheerful song.

He can’t breathe.

Nathaniel struggles for air as his mind tries to come up with a plausible explanation for this, with something that will might sense of this, but he can’t. think. The pain meds dancing through his bloodstream make a garbled mess out of his head and the intense pain he feels still throws him off a little because he should be used to this by now. He should be used to Riko’s schemes and his anger, but this doesn’t make sense, what is happening, where is he, Riko has never… _He’s never been so angry_.

Nathaniel can’t hold off the full-body flinch as the memories suddenly start coming back in flashes, lightening-quick and blurry, but he _remembers_.

He remembers Riko’s snarling face, the banquet, _Kevin_ , the panic in Jean’s widening eyes, a cut-off scream. Then there’s a phone, a voice with British accent, plans made in whispers. He remembers pain, so much pain. Riko smiles, Riko sneers, Riko shouts—there’s a door, there’s fresh air and a highway. There’s agony so blinding that _Kevin_ is the only destination he can think of. He remembers truck drivers paid in small bills, running, a truck driver for whom money isn’t enough, but _he can’t, he won’t, don’t–_ Pain, shameful heat, a black eye, bruised knuckles. He remembers ong hours, longs nights, a lock to be picked, knives and pale blond hair and then—nothing.

He breathes. It’s difficult and it hurts, but he manages. He’s alive.

Barely, but he’s alive.

At least for now.

Nathaniel doesn’t know what Riko will do if (when. With his connections it’s only a matter of time until he finds him. But Nathaniel can’t let himself think like that, so it’s) _if_ he learns what Nathaniel has done. And only now, as Nathaniel stares out the window until his retinas burn and he feels his eyes watering, it dawns on him what exactly he’s done.

He has escaped. He’s free.

This is not some sick joke of Riko’s because Riko doesn’t know who Stuart Hatford is. Because Riko wouldn’t have allowed it to go that far. He would have long ago barged in and squished the faint flicker of hope that flutters in Nathaniel’s chest with a mocking grin and a brandished blade. But he’s not. This is real. This is–

The door opens with a creak.

The sound of footsteps filters in, of people talking in hushed voices, a metallic jangle.

Nathaniel’s heart sinks. An icy shiver runs down his spine and goose bumps crawl over his flesh. He bites his lip harder, tastes blood. His heart beats in his throat.

 _No, it can’t be._ He has made it. Riko can’t be here, can’t know. Nathaniel couldn’t have gone through all that for nothing _. He has to…_ The window _. He has to get out of here before_ –

The talking stops just as Nathaniel tries to get the window open with a shaking hand. His other is pressed against his abdomen in a pathetic attempt to hold himself together because he feels as if he’s going to fall apart any moment now. His body _burns_ in agony, but he can’t let a little physical discomfort stop him now. He’s been through worse; probably, hopefully.

His head is dizzy with horror and fear and those fucking pain meds and he has to get out, _now_. Nathaniel wouldn’t be able to handle another disappointed hope, another triumphant Riko, he’d rather d—no. _Never_. He’s sworn that to himself and Jean so many times, over and over, he won’t let himself think like that now. Not even when the punishment for his latest stepping-out-of-line is probably going to be worse than even Satan himself could imagine.

He breathes. Straightens through the pain that sets him aflame, relaxes his fingers and takes them off of the window handle while his other hand clenches and bites into the raw skin on his abdomen. Only then, after he’s taken a steadying breath, he slowly turns around, mentally prepared for whatever Riko might confront him with right now. It doesn’t matter if it’s his trademark _I-got-you_ smirk or his favorite switchblade or even if he’s made Lola come with him. Nathaniel will not let himself falter in the face of whatever horror Riko has planned for him, he’s prepared to take his punishment and come out on the other end alive, however barely. What other choice does he have than to be prepared?

But Nathaniel is definitely not prepared to see who really is standing in the doorway.

He blinks, opens his mouth, closes it.

His knees shake and the air leaves his lungs as if he’s been punched, his chest hurts.

He stumbles a step backwards, only barely manages to catch himself on the windowsill with fingers that feel as if they’re broken. He suspects middle and ring finger of his left hand, fractured somewhere between the second and the third knuckle. He can’t make a fist. Nathaniel’s mind tries to supply him with things that are familiar, predictable (such as figuring out the extent of his injuries) like always when faced with difficulties, but even still, nothing about this situation is anywhere close to familiar and predictable.

Nathaniel feels set adrift in a way he hasn’t for a long time.

There’s an unfamiliar woman standing in the doorway, next to the unsmiling blond midget twin that is not Andrew Minyard. They stare at him and he stares back, holding his breath and waiting for the fallout that is sure to come when they find him here.

“Nathaniel!” the woman exclaims when they make eye contact. “What are you doing out of bed?! You shouldn’t be moving with those injuries! You shouldn’t even be _able_ to move like this.” – _“How are you still standing?”_ she doesn’t say, but it’s clear enough that she thinks it.

It’s kind of a fallout, but definitely not the one Nathaniel has expected. He doesn’t understand why there’s no violence. Why is she more concerned with the fact that he’s out of bed than that he’s _here_?

Her eyes are big and worried, her brow furrowed and she exchanges a look with the Minyard who only lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at her concern. But Nathaniel is conditioned to register all kinds of facial minutiae, so he can see a muscle twitch in Minyard’s jaw as if he’s gritting his teeth despite the careful blank mask he has tried to put on.

 _There it is_ , Nathaniel thinks, reading it as a sign of aggression, especially when both he and the woman step into the room when Nathaniel stays silent. They make as if to come for him, as if to dish out the punishment for not being where he’s supposed to be.

( _“What are you doing out of bed, Junior?” he hears, distantly but effective._ )

Nathaniel might be stuck dumb by what’s happening, might be frozen in place, his mind might be reeling helplessly, might be replaying the things he’s planned to spit at Riko’s face without an outlet now that Riko isn’t even here, but the urge to flinch and to curl in on himself when confronted with the two-on-one kind of violence still comes naturally after so long. And right now, he really isn’t in a state to suppress it.

It’s only when the movement in the room stops and there’s a startled gasp that Nathaniel comes back to his senses. He snaps his mouth shut and bites his tongue so harshly he draws blood when he realizes that he’s been rattling off a mixture of apologies and insults in Japanese.

He breathes. He doesn’t actually know if he’s alive.

It feels more as if he’s actually died and now is caught in some weird spiral of an alternate dimension or something. This can’t be real. He has to be on some weird-ass drug Riko made him take and is now hallucinating. Or he’s dreaming and can’t wake up. Maybe he’s lying in coma and caught in limbo or some shit like that. Or, he’s dead.

Nathaniel just knows that this can’t be real. This woman can’t be talking to him in a soothing voice from a safe distance away, telling him that she’s Abigail Winfield (but you can call me Abby), that she’s the Foxes’ nurse and has tended to his injuries, that he’s safe here, that he’s at Palmetto State University, Riko is states away and can’t get to him, but Nathaniel should really lie down again now, he must be tired, his injuries have been grave but he’ll live, he’ll just have to go back to bed now and don’t worry, _you’re safe here_.

Nathaniel knows this can’t be real because there’s no place in the world where he will ever be safe.

He knows this can’t be real because no one has ever looked at him for so long and not lost their smile. But this woman has and hasn’t and her eyes are too soft and she looks so caring that Nathaniel has to look away because even though he knows that this isn’t real, he can’t let himself ruin this pure heart, even if she’s just some fucked up fragment of his imagination in some parallel universe after his death, or something.

Nathaniel is too busy biting his lip and trying to stave off a full-blown panic attack and desperately holding his composure together to notice that, for a moment, the woman has stopped talking to him and instead turned to the Minyard twin that might not even be real and whispered something to him.

It’s only when she repeatedly calls his name, voice so soft as if he might break otherwise, that Nathaniel drags his eyes up from the dirty spot on the floor they’ve locked onto and back up to her too-soft face. Her smile has faded a bit, rough around the edges with worry, but it’s not completely gone yet.

“What,” he croaks out hoarsely when she won’t stop saying his name. He drags his teeth through the bloody line they’ve left on his tongue before, and the harsh sting distracts him from the mental image the repeated _Nathan(iel), Nathan(iel), Nathan(iel)_ threatens to conjure up.

Despite his sharp tone of voice, the woman’s smile widens at his response, her lips stretch until there’s a small dimple on her left cheek and pearly white teeth are revealed. The sight of this smile is so dissimilar to Lola’s that Nathaniel’s shoulders sag the tiniest bit in relief. He hasn’t even realized that he’s been comparing the two women the whole time. But the one positive thing Nathaniel can say about this whole weird hallucination is that it has yet to confront him with the appearance of people he actually knows. Maybe that’s the point of this after-death-experience, Nathaniel thinks, feeling increasingly maddened, but bulling on nevertheless, unwilling to consider the possibility of _what if_. Maybe he’s supposed to experience how kindness feels like before he’ll eventually bite the dust.

“Hello, dear,” the woman says when Nathaniel meets her gaze, as if the past however many minutes haven’t happened and as if this is the first time they meet. It immediately makes Nathaniel wary, but he can appreciate the effort, even if it’s just his subconscious making all of this up.

Should worst come to the worst, he reminds himself, he should be able to best the woman no matter his state.

“Hi,” he replies with a heavy sigh, and finally lets some of his weight be supported by the wall at his back. He’s exhausted. Physically, mentally, in every way possible. With the Minyard in the room, he hasn’t been able to give in to it and he’s needed to stay on his toes. Apropos—where _is_ the blond midget?

The woman follows his gaze to the empty spot at her side and seems to sense the unspoken question. She studies Nathaniel and worries her lip between her teeth for a moment, sending Nathaniel’s heart into a gallop at the uncertainty he can easily read in the way she holds herself as he regards her as well, in the way her fingers twitch and her eyelids flutter as she blinks too fast to be reasoned away by the need to wet her eyes.

“I,” she begins, “I thought that maybe you’d like to see a familiar face since you were all…” She vaguely waves a hand about and _“panicking”_ she doesn’t say. “I mean, I can only imagine what it’s like to wake up in a strange room, in pain, then having two strangers barging in… and after all you’ve been through… I just thought, that, well, maybe you’d like to see a familiar face, and since you’re up now I can’t keep denying him to see you, so I sent Aaron to–”

The opening of the door interrupts her at that, and it takes the moments between then and when the _familiar face_ storms in for Nathaniel to connect the dots.

It’s too late when he says, “No, don’t let him–”

 _“–see me,”_ he doesn’t finish, because he already stands there next to the woman, expression shattered as if he’d just learned the truth about Kayleigh Day’s death all over again.

 _Kevin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's that.  
> I hope you enjoyed? I'm honestly not sure if I liked this or not.
> 
> I just know that I love reading angst and I decided to try writing my own. As I said, it kind of escalated and this happened.  
> But there's definitely going to be more action and less introspection in the next chapters. 
> 
> Is it too much description? Did the angst work for you? What about my writing style? Let me know what you think!
> 
> I live for comments, feedback and kudos.
> 
> P.S: Don’t worry, Nathaniel will stop being a drama queen and be back to his mouthy self pretty soon. I think.  
> P.P.S. not too soon, though.  
> P.P.P.S. Anyone notice the last few lines? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin's a coward, Nathaniel's a tough little shit, Andrew is smiling but plain rude and Aaron is just done with everyone... What else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Thank you for the amazing response to the last chapter!
> 
> I’ve had real problems with this chapter and I don’t think I’ve ever written and rewritten something so many times, so I hope it didn’t turn out too bad! 
> 
> Chapter three starts exactly where the last one ended, just so that there isn’t any confusion. Enjoy this ride of an emotional rollercoaster!

_Kevin_.

Nathaniel drinks him in, feels himself automatically gravitating towards the black-haired man; he stands up a little taller again, the weight in his chest lifts a little and he can breathe a little easier but—

The rigid line of Kevin’s shoulders is familiar, the strained tension and slightly hunched posture are not. The black number two tainting the left side of his bold features is familiar, the way he makes a pained noise and clasps a hand over it as he catches sight of Nathaniel is not. The way the light catches in brilliant green eyes is familiar, the haunted, hollowed-out look in them is not.

The sight hits Nathaniel like a fist to the face and the drastic changes between now and four months ago knock the breath out of him.

Kevin looks like a broken man and Nathaniel feels sick. He swallows to try and get rid of the acid taste in his mouth, forces a breath down his sore throat to his empty lungs and only then he manages to tear his gaze away.

There’s a sea of conflicting emotions churning his stomach at seeing Kevin here and like this, so many they lap over each other, drowning in white crests and getting sucked under by the current. It’s a mess and Nathaniel _feels_ , so does what he does best: he averts his eyes and locks everything away somewhere deep down; throws it into the dungeons along with hundreds of other memories and thoughts and hopes, where they’ll rot until Nathaniel is no more.

This internal lockdown couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but Nathaniel almost has lost focus of more important things, almost forgot to keep watching out for potential threats, and it’s the best he can do to keep from flinching when he realizes it. It’s such a simple lesson, he really shouldn’t… Nathaniel forces himself to stay focused.

The Minyards aren’t far behind Kevin, but they have to shoulder their way into the room because their new teammate is blocking the doorway where he’s ground to an abrupt halt. (Nathaniel deliberately doesn’t notice that Kevin looks close to a panic attack by now.)

For a moment, Nathaniel can’t tell the twins apart as they flank Kevin on both sides, in their similar all-black attire, blond and standing at five foot even. Then, the one standing to Kevin’s left snickers and nudges Kevin’s hip with his elbow, grinning up at him, toothy and full of mock cheer until Kevin finally drags his stare away from Nathaniel and shifts his edgy attention to the twin.

“Riko did a good job on that one, didn’t he? Fucked him up even better than he did your hand.”

Andrew laughs out loud, cheerful enough to send a shiver down Nathaniel’s spine, when both Kevin and Nathaniel flinch at the comment, neither able to meet the eye of the other. Neither of them wanting to acknowledge the glaring truth of that statement.

Nathaniel is the first one to move after a moment of stupefied silence, but only to shift his weight onto the leg that Riko hasn’t stabbed several times in a fit of blind anger until he’s realized that Nathaniel won’t be able to play like this and then continued somewhere on his upper body. When he feels something warm trickle down inside the baggy trousers he has on (he doesn’t even want to think about what the people must have seen who have patched him up, doesn’t want to think about strange hands on his skin, too close and too hot and), Nathaniel realizes that he must have torn a few stitches with his hasty flight-attempt. Plus, the painkillers probably are wearing off now because, fuck, it hurts. He can’t suppress a little hiss as he shifts his weight again, inconspicuously trying to let himself be supported by the wall at his back without giving up his loose fighter’s stance which will hopefully allow him to at least dodge the first attack, whenever it was to come.

Before anyone else can react, Kevin chokes, and Nathaniel’s attention is drawn to him like a moth to the flame, all over again. He looks like he wants to say something, mouth opening and hand twitching at his side, fingers flexing, as if he wants to reach out to Nathaniel, but the moment passes when he realizes that Nathaniel is meeting his gaze. Kevin looks away, breathing heavy and shoulders sagging and Andrew laughs as if he’s witnessing the most delightful scene.

Nathaniel watches with bitter, self-deprecating amusement how the fight bleeds out of Kevin, how he goes back to watching Nathaniel in horrified silence, his hand creeping back up to cover his cheek, disbelief written all over his face. (Nathaniel really should know better by now, should know that when it comes to Kevin, his paper-thin wings of hope are always going to be burned to

ashes.)

Meanwhile, regardless of his growing frustration, Nathaniel doesn’t let himself make the same mistake again and keeps part of his focus on what’s going on in the rest of the room. Aaron shakes his head and begins fiddling with the first-aid kit he’s brought with him, interest seemingly lost when no one starts shouting despite the tension in the air. And the woman apparently deems the situation as safe as it gets, because once she’s made sure that everyone’s mostly alright, she starts chiding Andrew for this rudeness even though his comment didn’t have any visible repercussions.

Honestly, what else has Nathaniel expected?

He feels like shaking his head and clicking his tongue in disappointment at Kevin’s demeanor, but the second these thoughts register consciously, he’s disgusted with himself and he has to close his eyes under the onslaught of memories.

Because it’s a reaction he’s witnessed all too often whenever someone’s behavior didn’t meet the expectations. Nathaniel can almost see him standing there, over him, dark and looming like a thunderstorm, a cruel smile twisting his lips and saying “You still haven’t learned it yet, have you?”, saying “Shut up and kneel.” and “Who is your king?”. He can imagine him shaking his head in disappointment as he drags a jagged knife down Nathaniel’s chest, clicking his tongue and “Tsk-tsk-tsk. You should know better by now, Nathaniel.”, prodding and pocking until Nathaniel screams himself hoarse. (He can see it in his mind’s eye, the dark and bloody room, the monster called Riko Moriyama and the shadow that sometimes has joined in and stood in the corner, a horrified silence radiating from him as he’s witnessed what exactly his adopted brother is capable of.)

This mental reminder of Kevin is finally enough for Nathaniel to drag himself out of the headspace he’s fallen into, and with a jolt he’s back in his body and all too aware of the eyes on him. He suppresses the series of memories those looks threaten to drag up in turn, fights against phantom hands and phantom bodies, against unwanted attention and too close observation; pushes down sweat and screams and pain overwhelming his senses because he can’t let himself be distracted.

He breathes.

He’s alive. He’s convinced of that second fact again.

If this were a hallucination, a dream, a parallel universe or another dimension, Kevin wouldn’t be here. Not like this. Nathaniel is sure of that. If this weren’t real, Kevin wouldn’t cradle his injured hand against his chest, hunched over like a frightened child, he wouldn’t take a step back to hide behind a blond midget with an empty smile when he catches Nathaniel’s eye. He’s sure of it because the Kevin Nathaniel’s mind occasionally makes up is never as much of a coward as the real and breathing version of him is. (Occasionally meaning: when he’s high on pain and agony and lack of oxygen, hair still dripping wet and Jean screaming beside him; when he’s so far gone that _Kevin_ is the beginning and end of everything Nathaniel’s scrambled mind can think of; when he forgets that fairy tales have stopped existing for him when his father has stepped on stick-sword and hand alike when he was playing knight at age three; when he dreams of _what_ _if_ ’s he knows can never come true but he still _wants_ them.)

Nathaniel doesn’t know what he has expected when he’s made the decision to come to Palmetto—no, wait, that’s not true. Nathaniel hasn’t expected anything because he hasn’t been in a state to think clearly and he probably still isn’t thinking clearly now, but whatever it was that has driven him to come here definitely was not what he’s seeing now. It’s not Aaron’s impassive face, Andrew’s manic smile, Kevin’s terrified expression, and definitely not the nurse’s startling but seemingly genuine concern. He doesn’t know what he’s expected, but, oh, against every logic and every law in his universe, he’s _hoped_.

This is pathetic, and reality so incredibly anti-climatic that Nathaniel can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his throat, no matter how much it hurts to let it out.

He feels hysteric and he can’t really breathe anymore, but it doesn’t matter because _what has he done_ and _was this really for nothing_ and he laughs and his chest’s so tight, and then, sobering, _I’m dead_. Cold, hard reality.

Nathaniel’s laughter cuts short, and his ribs and lungs and throat appreciate it, but it’s not really a relief.

If Kevin reacts like that only to seeing him, then Nathaniel doesn’t want to know what the coward is going to do when he hears about the reasons for Nathaniel to be here. It won’t matter that he’s escaped Riko’s clutches, that he’s free, not when Kevin’s fucking _afraid_ of him. Because freedom doesn’t mean so much, when he’s still nothing in the end. When he’s even less than nothing, now that he can’t play, now that he’ll be just another nameless face in the crowd, with no real reason for existing despite defying his father and the Moriyamas.

He knows his end will come and it will come soon and Nathaniel once again wonders what exactly it is that urges him to fight on, no matter what. Wonders if it’s his mother’s blood boiling at the idea of submitting himself, if it’s something his father has drilled into him while trying to break him, if it’s remains of dreams shared in whispered French or maybe something that’s just him, just _Abram_ , but whatever it is, it’s so goddamn persistent that no matter how much Nathaniel gets tempted, he just can’t _let go_. He can’t let go of that miniscule spark of life inside him, can’t give himself up even when rationality stacks all odds against him. Because _nothing alone_ may be worth less than _nothing at Kevin’s side_ , but it’s still better than _nothing beaten and broken by the Butcher and the Raven King_.

Nathaniel can see now that Kevin won’t be able to help him, won’t _want_ to help him, not when that means defying the Moriyamas even further. He can see it in Kevin’s posture, in his expression, under the fear where there’s the silent demand to _go home, go back, don’t anger him further_.

Maybe Kevin hasn’t changed so much after all. It still hurts, though, because Kevin has no idea what it was really like. Because witnessing a couple of torture sessions doesn’t mean _anything_ , doesn’t even come close to _experiencing_ them. And yet Kevin assumes the right to give him this look, as if… as if he still has a say in what Nathaniel does, as if he hasn’t left them at the first taste of pain when he knew exactly that Jean and Nathaniel were going through worse things on a daily basis.

Bitter resentment settles in Nathaniel’s chest once again, and, together with it, the decision to leave as soon as he possibly can. Another day, maybe two, depending on how long it’ll take his uncle to do business and his injuries to stop bleeding, and then he’ll be back on the road. The road that will take him to nowhere, nobody and nothing waiting for him now that his mother is dead and Kevin here, nothing except purest survival. Nathaniel doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but he will survive, and if he has to tear down the whole world in the process.

 _Fuck you, Kevin_ , Nathaniel thinks with such an intensity he might as well have said it; He won’t let anyone interfere with the sad remnants of his life anymore. Not even Kevin. Especially not Kevin.

It’s movement in the corner of his eye that reminds Nathaniel of exactly how much advantage Lola would have taken of his distraction by now, and he’s momentarily confused by the lack of fresh pain. Then, he remembers where he is at right now, not where he has been or where he will be, and then he’s even more confused because if he has learned one thing about Andrew on that one occasion they’ve met then it’s that Andrew is no stranger to violence and threat and punishment, so why isn’t there any of that now?

“He seems like a nutcase,” Andrew says as if reading his thoughts, even though the comment doesn’t seem addressed to anyone in particular.

Nathaniel can’t honestly disagree, but then again, honesty has never been one of his virtues, has it? A big mouth, on the other hand, definitely is one of his strongest traits, even though nobody ever really gained from it.

“Like you’re the one to talk,” Nathaniel therefore croaks in response, once again unable to hold himself in check. His tongue feels like sandpaper and his vocal cords like they’ve recently been torn to shreds, glued together only by the lump that sits in his throat and that he’s able to swallow down.

“So he _is_ functioning then! And here I’ve been thinking Kevin has got me a Madame Tussaud’s experiment gone wrong.” Andrew’s gleeful attention is focused on Nathaniel alone, and it feels wrong and too heavy to hide behind this manic smile, and Nathaniel doesn’t really understand what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter.

“You fancy yourself as particularly hilarious today, don’t you?” Nathaniel says tiredly although his heart isn’t really in it anymore. It seems to be much more concerned with pumping blood through his tired limbs, losing about half of it on the way through Nathaniel’s body due to several reopened wounds. Or at least Nathaniel feels like that’s the case. Breathing becomes more and more a chore, his wounded leg throbs awfully, his broken fingers and ribs hurt with an intensity Nathaniel has seldom experienced, and in several other places there’s just a numb pain that probably comes from the little blood Nathaniel has to spare. In combination with the mental and emotional turmoil that wrecks havoc behind dungeon bars, it’s absolutely exhausting.

The woman – it’s Abby. Since he’s come to the conclusion that she isn’t a hallucination after all he can call her by her name – seems to see right through the poker face Nathaniel tries to keep when he can’t refrain from flexing his fingers to try and see if he’ll still be able to hold a racquet. A moment later he realizes that he won’t play Exy ever again no matter what, and it’s only then that he isn’t able to hold back a faint wince and a grimace.

Abby cuts off Andrew’s next retort with a wave of her hand and turns her attention on Nathaniel instead. “How do you feel?” she asks (still so fucking softly) as if the answer isn’t obvious.

“Like something that’s been run over by a truck, sit upon by an elephant and thoroughly chewed by a crocodile.” Nathaniel really can’t fathom why it is that he actually tries for a half-hearted joke to lighten the mood.

“Like a zoo, then,” Andrew summarizes, and effortlessly ruins Nathaniel’s efforts. Surprisingly, it’s Aaron who curses and tells his brother to shut up when Nathaniel struggles to come up with an appropriate response.

Eventually, he lifts his left hand to his temple and tries to give a two-fingered salute in imitation to how Andrew has dismissed him at the banquet. His muddled brain doesn’t immediately comprehend why the gesture doesn’t work the way he wants it to. Only when he wiggles his fingers in front of his face, when he sees that his messed up fingers really are that messed up and that it won’t change, no matter how hard he tries, does he begin to understand. Thinking around the fog in his mind increasingly becomes more difficult, too, Nathaniel notices.

A humorless smile twists his features into something that makes Kevin recoil with a strangled yelp while Andrew looks curious and Aaron slightly green. Only Abby has a look on her face that Nathaniel can’t begin to decipher. She approaches him, though, slowly and cautiously as if he were a cornered animal, and Nathaniel’s legs quiver.

He wants to claw the smile off of his face, wants to retreat further into the wall, unable to bear touch at the moment, but just as unable to move a single muscle except for his lungs whose breathing rate has sped up to a painfully panicked pace. His fingers ache to hold a weapon, his heart and soul burn with the need to find an exit and make a run for it, but even Nathaniel realizes that, in his state, the slightest movement will knock him off his feet.

“Watch out that the bird doesn’t bite off your fingers, Abby. I hear Raven’s beaks are exceptionally sharp. Craw-craw,” Andrew calls out when the nurse has approached so as to only a few feet distance between them and Nathaniel’s stomach roils. She’s not within arm’s reach yet, but that doesn’t make Nathaniel any less anxious. He’s forgotten how agonizing it is not to know what to expect. He can deal with Riko’s torture better than with whatever _this_ is. Especially Andrew’s overly-happy snicker grates on Nathaniel’s nerves; it makes him feel on edge and lets his energy fade even faster.

Abby, amazingly, manages to ignore the drugged maniac, and instead keeps her gaze on Nathaniel, her expression now confusingly serious.

“Nathaniel. I know it’s not easy, but you’ve got to listen to me now. I need you to lie down. Your injuries are not to be taken lightly. You’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ve broken several bones and you’ve punctured your lung, and I’m not even going to talk about the cuts and bruises and…” she has to take a breath, calms herself, takes a step closer. “What I mean to say is that even though nothing is life-threatening right now, that can change the longer you’re standing around and not granting your body the desperately needed rest. Heal now, worry about the rest later. Okay?”

Nathaniel finds himself nodding before he even realizes it. He knows he shouldn’t trust this, shouldn’t let himself show weakness, especially not with the other three still in the room, but it’s too hard to resist. For one, he’s so damn tired he can barely keep his eyes open, and for the other, the nurse’s logic is undeniable. Even more so with his plan on how to proceed at the back of his mind.

“Will you let me touch you?” Abby asks, and Nathaniel freezes. No one has ever asked him that question, and _how is he supposed to react_? “Just so I can support you back to the bed,” she clarifies when Nathaniel remains stock-still.

He shakes his head and his body moves before she has finished her sentence.

“No! I can–”

There’s a commotion by the door when Nathaniel’s legs give out from underneath him, and a distracted look tells him that Andrew is forcefully holding Kevin back from moving forward; a five-feet midget stopping a six-feet wall of muscle. His smile has disappeared and Kevin looks sick; skin pale and eyes blown wide, staring at Nathaniel with an expression that he doesn’t know how to interpret. Then, a millisecond later, Nathaniel tries to catch his fall with his hands and realizes the mistake too late; the pain is a crackling lightning bolt that streaks up his arm and down his spine and explodes whitely-hot behind his eyes, letting him see only spotted blackness for a moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, or maybe he screams. He isn’t sure. It’s too much.

Nathaniel gasps and wheezes and coughs, and red dots the carpeted floor beneath him.

He can’t breathe. There’s panic crawling up to him, only waiting for the right moment to push him over the edge and into the abyss.

Then there’s a (phantom) hand on his back and memories and Nathaniel flinches away from the touch and plunges headfirst into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... Yeah.   
> Hope you liked it! Despite the general awfulness.   
> I hope it's somehow comprehensible that Nathaniel isn't at the top of his game at the moment, considering everything. Snarky!Nathaniel will definitely be a thing in the next few chapters, though.
> 
> First, though, there'll be another one in Andrew's POV ... we'll see how this goes.   
> Thanks again, for, you know, putting up with me :'D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a mess. An absolute mess. I'm sorry. 
> 
> And I honestly don't know why my chapters always get longer... Oh well. 
> 
> I hope I can pique some interest / answer some questions with this chapter, but I'm not too sure... As I said, it's a mess.
> 
> Enjoy!

Andrew snorts derisively as Nathaniel crumples onto the floor with a thud that somehow echoes in the suddenly-gone-silent room. “He sure knows how to be dramatic.”

There’s another beat of silence after that; the pause sounds shocked, speechless, and, from Kevin, absolutely terrified.

Then Aaron snaps back into action and roughly pushes past Andrew to go help Abby. That he’s not even deigning Andrew with an angry remark has to be saying something about Nathaniel Wesninski’s current condition.

Through the haze of the drugs, Andrew pays attention to the scene playing out in front of him for a few moments. He observes his brother as he tries to copy Abby’s expert movements in taking care of the fallen Raven. He watches as they handle the unconscious body carefully, as Aaron he puts pressure on his right leg to stop the worst of the bleeding while Abby fusses with the bed so they can relocate him. It’s like watching them play with a puppet and, for a moment, the thought is amusing enough that Andrew entertains it, thinking of little girls and Barbies, of little boys and how they get beaten when they get caught even touching such a ‘girl-toy’, thinking of the black eye and bruises of one of his foster brothers and of how he himself sometimes has felt like a marionette, like a lifeless puppet whose strings has been pulled and who has no choice but to let itself be handled. Another wave of mania, pushing away the memories and sweeping him up makes Andrew’s muscle loosen and he _laughs_.

Then, Kevin makes a chocking sound, shifts as if he’s torn between storming forward and running away and Andrew is reminded of how much he hates the first high that comes right after taking his pills, hates how it makes rationality seem like a far-fetched concept.

With his attention derailed again, the way Kevin keeps behaving like a kicked puppy, tail between its legs and a whimpering mess of guilt and shame and confusion quickly becomes annoying. And frustrating, too. Because whereas a minute ago, Kevin has tried to get past Andrew and to the bird, he now seems to have turned back into a frozen statue of fear, and this is even more pathetic to watch than his behavior during those first few days after he’s escaped from Evermore.

“I’m bored, Kevin. Let’s go,” Andrew says curtly and turns around, causing Kevin to move in order to avoid touch. And even though Kevin steps back mechanically, his eyes still seem glued to his former teammate, and he’s not even blinking.

“Kevin, hello. Hey, Day. Here’s where the action plays. Down here!” Andrew’s smile grows bigger when Kevin draws a shuddery breath and forcefully focuses his attention on Andrew instead. “There you are! Good, that’s good. We’re going to have a little talk now, just the two of us, and let the others do their work, yes? And you’ll tell me exactly what all this is about, isn’t that so? Great! Come on, get going.”

The expected narrowing of his eyes and arguments stay suspiciously absent; in their place, Kevin only rubs a hand over his face, sighs, and precedes Andrew on their way out of the room and down the stairs. His ragged breathing is the only sound he makes.

If Andrew were anyone else, at the latest now he would wonder aloud about Kevin’s state of mind, about his health, or maybe if Exy has been cancelled permanently, his apathetic reaction is that unusual. If he were anyone else, he would worry about the fact that, as soon as they reach the kitchen, Kevin breaks the hidden stash of alcohol at eleven in the morning and about what that has to mean. But he isn’t and he doesn’t.

Andrew doesn’t waste the effort to worry, not when he knows exactly what it’s like to look your nightmare in the face, to not to be able to distinguish between nightmare and reality, not knowing which case would be worse. He recognizes the dead, empty look in Kevin’s eyes and for once, he saves his comments about Kevin’s escalating alcoholism.

A quarter of a bottle Tequila later, though, Andrew puts a stop to Kevin’s attempt at drowning himself in the high-percentage liquid and screws the cap back on without even trying to pry it out of Kevin’s fingers; that would be wasted time he could use for other things.

So, Andrew ushers him into the living room and makes him sit down on the couch. Kevin follows without a word, staring numbly ahead even as Andrew takes a seat as well, cross legged and facing the ex-Raven.

“Now, Kevin. The time has come. Talk to me.”

The stare Andrew gets in return to that is blank, but at least Kevin doesn’t try to take another swig. He just sinks back into the cushions as if he could stop existing if he just disappears in them.

“What do you want to know?” he asks tonelessly, knuckles slowly turning white around the neck of the bottle.

Andrew’s finger clench involuntarily and there’s a hot flash of something like anger spiking through his medication before it fizzles out and the hazy buzzing under his skin makes his attention-span a flighty thing again. But even his medication doesn’t make him like seeing Kevin like this, a cowering coward instead of the Exy-obsessed asshole he has put enough trust in to cut a deal, the one that might be able to hold up his end of the bargain. He doesn’t want this Kevin; this Kevin can give him nothing.

And this sudden change in demeanor is somehow connected with a certain Raven fledgling that seems to have fallen out of its Nest. Andrew would really like to know the reasons for that. And what Riko Moriyama has to do with it. Nobody has actually spoken the name yet, but it hangs over everyone’s head like a comic thought bubble in flashy neon colors.

“How about you start at the beginning? Answer me this, for example: Why does Nathaniel Wesninski want you to go fuck yourself?” Andrew asks, and his smile takes on a sharper edge. Kevin averts his eyes, fingers working on uncapping the bottle and Andrew allows it only because he knows that Kevin will start talking after that, at least.

“Because he’s a stubborn little shit whose big mouth is going to cost him his life one of these days,” Kevin eventually mumbles around the mouth of his bottle, voice rough with dry, grievous amusement, green eyes distant with memories Andrew doesn’t care about.

“That’s not the answer I was looking for,” Andrew says instead, pulling Kevin back to the present. Kevin sighs, runs a hand through his hair and takes another swig Tequila before he actually sets the bottle down on the floor next to his feet. At that, Andrew almost begins to doubt if he’s not misjudged the situation, but the cheerful grin on his face wouldn’t let anyone guess.

“I know. It’s just. It’s not that simple, alright? Nathaniel—he’s complicated. He doesn’t know when to shut his mouth and he keeps quiet when he shouldn’t. I—fuck, Andrew.” The last of Kevin’s composure falls away at his new train of thought. His sentences become a slurred mess and his hands shake so badly Andrew is glad that he’s put the bottle away. “He loves driving Riko to the edge of insanity, but he’s never… Why would he _do_ that? Especially after everything with what he did to me… I don’t fucking know what’s happened, and it _scares_ me, Andrew. Fuck. I don’t know why he’s here, what he’s done, and… What if he’s supposed to be a message, a threat, sent by Riko to scare me into coming back? Because…. fuck, it works. I don’t want them hurt anymore, not like this, not because of me. I’ve already betrayed them enough, I can’t—just— _Andrew_ ,” he whines, head buried in his hands and it sounds like a desperate prayer.

Andrew almost physically recoils from the silent _help me_ in Kevin’s voice. He’s not someone who can fix things, he’s only someone who destroys them and everything that stands in his way. Kevin is not supposed to think of him like this.

“Kevin,” Andrew replies as calmly and coldly as his drugs allow. “Is Nathaniel Wesninski a threat? That’s all I want to know for now, you can keep your nervous breakdown to yourself for all I care. Or, to yourself and the alcohol, whatever you like better.”

Kevin’s laugh is incredulous. “Have you even _seen_ him? Goddamn it, Andrew.” At least the stupid pleading tone is out of his voice now, and the look he sends Andrew is bordering on more familiar exasperation.

“So what if his feathers are a bit ruffled? He’s still a Raven so you’ll forgive me if I don’t really care, yeah?”

“No, Andrew, he’s not a threat. Not when he’s hurt so badly and when he hasn’t got—” Kevin cuts himself off and latches onto the Tequila once again.

Andrew lifts an eyebrow, encouraging Kevin to go on and elaborate, but he deems it a lot cause for the moment when Kevin’s only reaction is a drunken curse.

He’ll have to wait until Kevin reaches the stage where the alcohol kicks in in a way that makes him spew semi-coherent secrets and honesty instead of just slurred nonsense.

It happens to be one lousy talk show and some cat videos later. Kevin sits up a little straighter, takes one look at what Andrew’s watching and loudly declares his distaste for the clawed fur balls, because he’s much more of a dog person, _they at least sit when you tell them to_. Andrew freezes the screen on a picture of a kitten with a green frog hat, giggles to himself for a second and then shifts to face the drunken mess.

“Well yeah, Kevin, I definitely can see the similarity there! Now, tell me, who is Nathaniel Wesninski and why is he here?”

Kevin sways slightly before he falls back into the cushions, moaning as if in pain. “He’s number four now,” he slurs. “But he was supposed to be number three.” A hiccup interrupts him. “He was a … gift, a payment, a tribute for the Moriyamas, donated by none other than his father. Kenneled, rather. And fuck, but I want to know what he’s doing here too. What if… What if he’s been sent here because of me? Because I defied the Master and now they punish them because of me and I have to—”

“Stop. Wind back a moment here. His father? And who is his father, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?” Andrew ignores the little niggling feeling at the back of his mind that tries to tell him about the improbability of Nathaniel Wesninski being sent as a message while he still being able to break into their dorm room, but he ignores it because a) Kevin does not and will not ever know about that and b) there’s a more curious thing to be wondering about.

“Nathan Wesninski,” Kevin shudders alone from uttering the name, “is … someone who’s been indebted to the Moriyamas but who’s also working for them and… it’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t make me talk about it.” The shudder wracks his entire body this time and his fingers clumsily reach for the alcohol, which is only filled to a quarter at this point. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have left in the first place, I knew it was only going to get worse and yet I… I’m so selfish and Nathaniel…” Kevin trails off in favor of downing another large gulp of Tequila. “I can’t let them suffer like this, not when…”

Andrew has quietly listened to Kevin’s pathetic lament, tried to resist his fraying patience, but now, finally, his interest is piqued again.

“Not when what?” he inquires and wonders about the look in Kevin’s eyes.

“I know what they’re capable of, Andrew. Hell, I know what Riko is capable of. I’m not as blind as they’d like me to be. But it’s just easier to… not see it.”

Andrew’s voice is deadly calm now, manic cheer wiped out by the icy feeling in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“I… they—the Ravens and… and… It’s not my place to tell you, I can’t…” The bottle slips through his fingers, lands upright, Kevin closes his eyes and _shakes_.

Andrew takes a deep breath, says, “Kevin.”

“Andrew.” The shaking hasn’t stopped yet, but oh, this is some truly unexpected spine. And he even dares to meet Andrew’s eyes! “No. I won’t. I promised. And I’ve broken so many promises already, I won’t break this one too. Please.”

“I don’t like this word.”

“I know,” Kevin whimpers, and the spine has disappeared again, ripped out by a trigger Andrew can’t detect. “I know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _S’il vous plaît. Pourriez-vous jamais me pardonner_ _?_ I didn’t know _… Le do thoil. Tá brón orm. J’ai promis._ I’m sorry _._ ”

And with that, Kevin starts breaking down again, words turning into a gibberish mess. It’s probably a mix of English, French and something that sounds Gaelic, but Andrew notices with interest that it’s never Japanese. Whoever he’s pleading with, whomever the mix of promises, of _how could you, why would you, we have to…_ is directed at, it’s not Riko.

Andrew watches on for a couple of minutes, fingers thrumming restlessly against his knee, until Kevin starts repeating himself, then his attention is lost. Fed up with Kevin’s pathetic behavior and indecisiveness, Andrew gets up, thrusts the bottle back into Kevin’s hand and leaves him to his own devices. The restless buzz still makes his skin feel itchy, and he knows it’s not only to do with what Kevin just told him and the unresolved threat of Nathaniel Wesninski. Because he can’t do anything about that other reason, though, Andrew decides to make sure that nobody’s death has tainted the peaceful atmosphere of Abby’s house.

The stairs are climbed in a way a happy little kid would; hopping two up, one down again and another two up and Andrew absolutely _despises_ his drugs, but he just can’t help himself.

When he pokes a head around the corner and into the guest bedroom, the sight that greets him should probably be mildly concerning. There’s a heap of bloodied bandages on the floor, Aaron’s clothes are drenched and his expression tense, while he holds together a wound that Abby is stitching, Nathaniel Wesninski’s chest is laid bare and the myriad of scars, healing cuts, fresh bruises and a whole lot of other injuries, old and new, that litters the pale skin would let the bile rise in anyone else’s throat. Andrew only observes the situation with a clinical eye, filing away every detail including alive people although one of them only seems barely so, and retreats before anyone notices him.

These images definitely give him something to think about while he makes sure that Kevin hasn’t offed himself in the meantime. The baby can never be left alone for too long, after all.

And he was right to come back immediately, because Kevin makes for a truly pathetic sight. The bottle is empty to the last drop, Kevin sits on the couch and worries his lip between his teeth, curled in on himself and teary-eyed, as he stares into the direction of the front door, apparently waiting for something to happen, and Andrew thinks it’s a fair guess to assume that it’s Riko he’s expecting to burst in, to come and take him back to Evermore. 

Andrew snaps his fingers as he crouches down in front of Kevin, and the answering flinch proves his assumption right. “Seeing ghosts?”

“I… _Andrew_ ,” and his voice comes too close to begging. “I was thinking and I… You’ve got to let him stay. I can’t let him go back, he wouldn’t survive it. Not after… after everything. But if he runs… Fuck, Andrew, if he runs he’s dead even faster, they’d catch him and… You _have_ to let him stay, Andrew. Please. If you’d protect him too, maybe he’d stand a chance, maybe he’d… Please, Andrew, please.”

Andrew snarls, expression ghastly as his meds clash with the coil of ugly thoughts and memories in his stomach, making him feel faintly nauseated and extremely spiteful.

“I absolutely _have to_ nothing, Kevin. Fuck off, you miserable bastard. Keep your petty guilt to yourself.” His fists are clenched so tightly it hurts and he tastes blood from biting the inside of his lips in attempt to restrain himself and not start flinging around stuff. Abby wouldn’t deserve it.

Andrew hasn’t raised his voice, but Kevin looks as though he’s slapped him. His hand goes up as if to claw at his tattoo and rip it off his skin, but his fingers stop just a millimeter above it; he still doesn’t dare to touch what’s Riko’s.

_Fucking coward_.

Andrew bites out another curse through gritted teeth and goes to leave the room before he handles the issue for Kevin or damages anything else when Kevin’s voice stops him.

“ _Please_ , Andrew,” he says again, though the guilt in his voice makes it clear he does it only to show how important this is to him. “If Riko sent him, I… I _have_ to go back. I can’t… I’ve looked away so often, tried to reason with myself, but this… I can’t, Andrew. I can’t let this happen anymore. If Jean’s still back there… He… I—I don’t know what he’s going to do. I can’t predict him anymore. It’s bad. But—Maybe if I could just save Nathaniel… If I could keep him here, not be responsible for his death, and… I don’t know. Fuck. I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t a good idea. It’ll be best if I just take him now and we go back before… Maybe they’d forgive us if they see—”

“Shut the fuck up, Kevin,” Andrew growls, and Kevin snaps his mouth shut so hard he can hear his teeth clash. “One more word and I’ll—”

“ _You_ won’t do anything, Andrew. To anyone,” Wymack interrupts from the doorway, grocery bags still in hand. There’s a pause, and then he turns his attention to Kevin. “And _you_ , Kevin. What the fuck are you talking about? You stay right where you are until you can think clearly again. And then we’ll talk about all the shit that’s been going down here. I’m still dying to know what a fucking Raven was doing–” at Andrew’s cough he casts him a glance and changes what he’s been about to say, “–bleeding out at the court. And anyway, it’s not up to either of us what Nathaniel does when he wakes up. But since I take it you’re not really lucid anymore… Sleep it off and enjoy your hangover tomorrow, yeah? And stop thinking like this, we’ll figure it out.”

Kevin just nods with a faraway look, finally lets go of the bottle and mechanically lies down on the couch, closing his eyes as if by command. Andrew watches as his breathing evens out surprisingly quick, and he only stirs when he hears the Coach muttering from the kitchen about how a speech like this could have been pre-written by Abby, he should have recorded it to prove that he is capable of saying nice things, too.

Andrew chuckles to himself as the high sweeps him up again, and he can’t help but agree with Wymack; considering their standards it _was_ shockingly nice.

Watching Kevin snore soon becomes boring and Andrew goes to join Wymack in the kitchen; instead of helping put the groceries away, though, he hops onto the counter and snatches a pint of ice cream, silently approving of Wymack’s choices. With a sigh, Wymack tosses him a spoon when he’s too lazy to get one and therefore has started eating with his fingers, but, suspiciously enough, he doesn’t comment on Andrew’s behavior.

He wonders for a moment if that’s Coach’s generous streak showing here, sparing him after a rough day, but of course he isn’t that lucky.

“I’m honestly not paid enough for this,” Wymack mutters as he puts away the last yoghurt, then he straightens and turns to face Andrew. “Now, Andrew. I’ve been wondering…”

“Oh, and you haven’t overexerted yourself? I’m proud, Coach. Like a mother hen.”

Wymack exhales and definitely has to use force in order to stay calm. “The direct approach, then. Should have know it. About what you were saying this morning. What other people say about you. You shouldn’t let it bother you, they—”

“Oh, Coach, you’re mistaken. I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what they think. As long as they’re no threat to me or mine, I. don’t. fucking. care.” Andrew uses the meaningful pause to take another bite of ice cream and then he lets a smile split his face. “I’m really glad we had this conversation. You can go back to worrying about things that fit in your pay grade now, yeah? Isn’t that great?”

“Andrew—”

“That was me saying shut up, didn’t you realize? Oh, but–” Andrew points in Wymack’s direction with his spoon, “–did you know an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain? Maybe that’s true for all birds and that’s why Ravens are so stupid. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t even… You’re unique, Andrew. Really,” Wymack says and heavily sits down at the kitchen table.

He puts his head in his hands and mutters, “Or maybe not,” when Aaron joins them in the kitchen a moment later.

Andrew scrapes out the last remains of chocolaty goodness as he watches his brother ignore the both of them and make a beeline for the sink, hands a bloody mess. He idly wonders how he would react to that sight if he didn’t know who the blood is from, but he discards the thought when he doesn’t like what his mind comes up with. Instead, he starts humming an annoying tune that’s been stuck in his head since the talk show and clanks the spoon against the counter to the beat.

Nobody berates him, though, and he feels almost disappointed at the lack of entertainment. At least, until Wymack addresses Aaron, expression weary.

“So, how’s the kid? He’ll live?”

“I hope so. It’d be a shame for so much work to go waste,” Aaron sounds tired, and his hands are scrubbed red when he eventually turns around. He still picks at something underneath his nails, face unreadable as he continues. “But you have to ask Abby for anything more concrete. Goddamn iron will that kid has, though. Stubborn fool was standing around for the quarter of an hour, at least, pain meds wearing off, and you wouldn’t have guessed that he’s had his leg impaled only a few days before. I don’t know what that sick fuck Riko has been up to in his free time, but he’s definitely upped his work since Kevin. Kid was lucky that the blade hasn’t hit the Os femoris or this would’ve been an even greater mess. In on one side and out the other, I’m telling you.” Aaron shakes his head, so caught up in his little medical wonder world that he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s talking more than he’s said in the last month or so. That’s interesting. Not only what it says about his brother but also about Nathaniel Wesninski. Kid’s tougher than he’s looked like. And Kevin will have more explaining to do.

Andrew grins and Wymack looks from one twin to the other, but he doesn’t say anything.

“And there’s even more to it.” Aaron goes on, unaware of the reactions his monologue is provoking. “Some of his ribs are most likely broken, but we can’t be sure without a CXR and since we can’t bring him to a hospital _now_ … Well. We’ll just have to see. If he won’t go running around again he’ll probably live. But we’re pretty sure he’s got a pulmonary contusion on top everything, and one of his lungs is probably punctured, even though the lesion is small enough that it can heal on its own. Still. It’s…” Andrew’s attention wanders again, and he thinks about how he should probably change his evening read to Aaron’s study books so he can keep up with all the medical terms his brother is spewing.

Footsteps on the stairs announce Abby’s pending arrival, and even Aaron looks up to gauge her expression when she enters the kitchen, absently rubbing at a blood stain on her shirt. She looks absolutely exhausted with her skin a tone paler than the usual tan complexion, with dark shadows under her eyes and her age more visible in the lines of her face, but her brown eyes seem as vivid and attentive as ever. A little, tired smile graces her lips and softens her tight expression when she looks up to them and and she even laughs a little at the empty pint that sits next to Andrew.

“I see that while some of you couldn’t wait for the dessert, no one has thought of actually start making dinner. You’re growing predictable, boys.”

Wymack is the only one who returns her smile honestly and he even gets up to assist her when Abby starts rummaging around in the cupboard and checks the fridge for ingredients.

“How’s spaghetti carbonara sound? That’s easy enough for even you cavemen to help.”

“Will you let me make the bacon?” Andrew asks, all smiley, but everyone remembers the last time he was supposed to roast it and actually did a good job of it until something else caught his attention, and nobody wants a repeat of that. The burnt smell had lingered for days.

Yet, Abby’s smile only grows wider. “Maybe another time. You could set the table, though. You know where everything is, yes?”

Andrew nods obediently and hops off the counter, happy to have something physical to do for the moment.

 

For once, dinner is a silent affair, the only conversation happening when everybody has complained about Andrew’s way of setting the table. It feels good to fill their stomachs with something substantial, though, so being busy with eating contributes to the silence.

Only when everyone is helping themselves to seconds, does Abby say conversationally: “So, I put him to sleep again. He won’t wake until tomorrow around noon, and yes, Andrew, you’ll have to be patient until them. I’d rather you wait even longer, but I know you well enough by now.” She pauses and looks him directly in the eye, something only few people dare to do. Andrew smiles his most innocent smile and nods understandingly, eager to finish the meal now that he’s got his information.

“And I’m all ears in case someone wants to start explaining why this poor boy lies in my guest bedroom in the first place.” Abby still eyes Andrew, although now she addresses the other two as well.

Putting down fork and knife next to his plate in an orderly manner, Andrew says: “We all would like to know that, believe me. But I think you’d have to ask Kevin and he’ll be out until tomorrow noon, too, so… I’ll go and have a chat with Renee now, if you don’t mind.”

Aaron sighs long-sufferingly and Wymack hides his expression behind his hand, but Abby offers him a soft smile that speaks of more patience than he probably deserves for his behavior and nods, gesturing a benevolent ‘go on’ with her free hand.

Andrew salutes the table as a whole and saunters off, ready to burn some excess energy and work out the fiery anger he’s been carrying around all day.

“Hello, Renee,” he says when she finally picks up her phone, keys already in the ignition of his car. “I’m coming to pick you up now, alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the read despite the lengthy mess of this!
> 
> Next chapter will finally have some lucid Nathaniel/Andrew interaction, and with Nathaniel back to himself I sure hope for some interesting conversations.
> 
> Feedback and comments and kudos are greatly appreciated as always. Also if you want to criticize my use of the English language, go ahead! I'm no native speaker so I love everything helping me improve myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... Another rather messy chapter. Sorry.  
> A little more about Nathaniel's personality is revealed and there's some Andreil interaction, although the most part of that will happen in the next chapter. 
> 
> Have a good time!

Like every morning, Nathaniel spends the first two seconds after waking up relearning how to breathe. Like every morning, it’s a struggle, and it gets continually harder to find reasons for why fighting on seems like a good idea. Unlike every morning, though his body feels heavy, clumsy and numbed, his throat is scratchy, from screaming or thirst he can’t tell, and he _hurts_ in a dulled kind of way, but he’s sure that there is an explanation for that, that Jean will be by his side any moment now to remind him of—

 _No. He won’t_.

(—anger, blood and pain and mistakes and _you stupid fuck_ and _how dare you,_ glinting knives and heavy fists and _please, Riko, stop_ and water flooding his lungs and _help me_ and _get out of here_.)

Nathaniel remembers, sucks in a harsh breath and stares wide-eyed at the wooden beam ceiling over his head, willing his flighty heart not to escape through his throat. He bites his lip for good measure and winces when he hits a bite wound that he’s not sure has been there before. His thoughts race, but his breathing stays calm, controlled. It has to. If nothing else, then Nathaniel has at least control over his breathing.

The dangerous things are safely locked away in the dungeons of Nathaniel’s mind, and this time, they are going to stay where they are.

It still takes him about half a minute until he’s able to gather his thoughts. It takes longer it would have back at the Nest, where the all-encompassing black (rooms and clothes and _numbers_ ) were always there to remind him of his place in the world. Yet, these thirty seconds now are much shorter than the time he’s been paralyzed yesterday, when… was it yesterday? How much time has passed since everything has gone down the drain? Since he first woke up? How much has he missed, lost?

Nathaniel’s breathing stays calm as he examines his body. His left hand is bandaged and splinted now, at least, and there are stitches holding together a gash on his arm that seem fresh; the plaster is still pristine white, so it couldn’t have been made too long ago. It’s only a little reassurance, though, and Nathaniel absolutely doesn’t like how often he’s out of it lately. This has to change, he can’t allow himself to drift off all the time. At the latest in a few days when he’s going to make his way to Canada he’ll have to have his wits about him or the consequences will be truly fatal.

Nathaniel forces himself to sit up despite the pain that blossoms in every part of his body and to think of a plan on how to proceed from here. The window and the greenery and the birds still bother him so he ignores them, focuses his gaze on the wilting [chrysanthemums](http://www.flowermeaning.com/chrysanthemum-flower-meaning/) in the vase.

He doesn’t know if it’s a sign or coincidence, and he isn’t sure if he believes in either of it. Not that it matters, anyway.

Nathaniel blinks away the memories of different blue flowers, of long brown hair clotted with blood and another narrow escape, and instead concentrates on figuring out the shortest route from Palmetto State, South Carolina to London, Canada that also allows for stops and turns and maybe an entirely different destination altogether.

London, Ontario is where a Hatford’s associate is one of approximately 360,822 inhabitants (British crime families are apparently not at all exempt from British humor), and Canada is one of the few countries where the Moriyamas aren’t yet well-established in, where it won’t be too easy for them to track him down, where killing him will take a little more time than it would in the US. A little more much needed time.

All Nathaniel needs is the okay from Stuart, some cash, another forged passport and a driver’s license, but he knows it’s too much to ask for in general and especially within such a small time-frame as the one he has on hand. How he’ll fare with his injuries, on the other hand, is second priority at most; Nathaniel has long since learned how to ignore pain and push on nevertheless (the lapse yesterday (?) had been caused by _too much_ and _not enough_ and this ability has somehow gotten lost in the shuffle of happenings—but that’s not relevant anymore).

Once Nathaniel hears from Stuart he’ll borrow one of Abby’s surgical knives and a steak knife or something for everything more far-ranged and, making sure he doesn’t murder either Kevin or Andrew, he’ll be fine to go.

At this point, though, Nathaniel’s plan gets stuck: is it easier to hot-wire a car or two or should he rely on public transport? Going by plane is out of question anyway, but what else is the least traceable? Fuck, he just doesn’t have enough experience for escaping the yakuza. Maybe he’ll have to ask Stuart for one last favor, for an answer to a question he’s too stupid to figure out by himself, but _he should know by now,_ he _can’t keep relying on other people because just look where it got him—_

In just the right moment the door creaks open, successfully drowning out Mary’s voice in his ear and ripping him out of thoughts that took a dangerous direction.

Nathaniel watches quietly as the whole lot files in, unmoving and face carefully blank, breathing _calm_. There’s five people and the room feels stuffed, the air so much heavier it did than just a moment ago. Other than yesterday, though, Nathaniel knows that it’s just his imagination and he forces down the tight feeling in his chest, the urge to press further against the wall at his back, to hide under covers.

The only one he hasn’t met in person yet is Coach David Vincent Wymack, and there are several striking resemblances that threaten to cut Nathaniel’s breath short all over again. He’s in control, though, so he doesn’t let it bother him that there’s a middle aged man standing within striking distance, that his relation to Kevin is so subtle it seems glaringly obvious, that he’s got tribal flame tattoos on his upper arms that remind him too much of Enrico Fiorelli and—Nathaniel doesn’t let himself care.

Instead, he allows himself to feel faintly surprised by the fact that today, it’s actually possible to tell the Minyard twins apart at first glance: a blackening eye and a scratched cheek mark one while the other seems mostly unharmed, although it’s not quite clear if the sour expression on his face stems from boredom, bad temper or some kind of pain.

Nathaniel takes one look at the bags under Kevin’s eyes, at the distinct positioning of his feet, standing at attention like a soldier, and he knows it’s not a good day, knows that if they were back at the Nest, every stepping out of line today would lead to severe punishment. Good thing Nathaniel has never been one to shy away from a so obvious challenge; he’s always been doing his best (or worst) when confronted like this, and today is not going to be an exception, no matter his situation. There have been too many exceptions already, these past weeks.

So, before the last shuffle dies down, before Abby has even fully entered the room with the rest of them, Nathaniel puts on his brightest and emptiest smile and says: “Hello! Wow, I’m at a loss for words. So honored that you deign to pay me a visit. The infamous Foxes, wow. And Kevin Day, the charming asshole. Oh. My. God. I hope you excuse my fangirling. But do you think one of you could get me an autogr—”

“Shut _up_ , Nathaniel!” Kevin snarls, and it’s just as ugly as Nathaniel has expected it to be, just as he remembers. He can’t help the self-deprecating half-smile at Kevin’s predictableness. Number two hasn’t really changed, after all. How much more than a shattered hand is is going to take to let him see reason, then?

Abby and David Wymack who’ve stared slack-jawed at Nathaniel turn their stares on Kevin, just as, if not more shocked, as if they honestly hadn’t expected such a reaction from him, as if they didn’t _know_ , and even Andrew lifts an eyebrow at his protégé’s outburst. Aaron, on the other hand, just sweeps his gaze from one to the other, utterly done with everyone, and he turns to leave when he catches Nathaniel’s knowing look. His grimace has more likely been caused by annoyance than pain, then. Understandable. Nathaniel would leave too, if he could.

Kevin doesn’t notice any of this, of course. He’s always been kind of a single-minded bastard. And he once again shows this lovely character trait of his as he begins spewing reprimands and threats and demands in Japanese, the last five months apparently wiped from his mind for the moment.

He only stops when Andrew moves towards him, stepping into his line of sight, and despite the fact that Kevin can easily see over the blond’s head, he looks down at him, stops in the middle of his sentence and blinks, as if wondering since when there’s a midget goalie in the Raven’s lineup. Three seconds later, his eyes snap back up to Nathaniel and he physically recoils from whatever he sees there, his back slamming into the wall with a painful thud. Nathaniel can’t bring himself to care; his whole concentration is being used up to suppress any kind of shaking in his body, to keep his breath steady and face straight.

“Nathaniel, I—I’m…” Kevin stammers, eyes wide and horrified as he stares at his former teammate, his right hand cradling the left one.

“Save it, Day.” Nathaniel’s voice comes out scratchier than he’d have liked it to be, but at least it’s somewhat steady.

“I… _Le do thoil. Logh dom_.”

“Fuck you. You have no right to ask for forgiveness. None.” Nathaniel swallows when he feels his voice close to breaking, his breath catching in his throat, and the fingernails on his good hand dig into the soft skin of his palm. “I don’t even know why I bothered to come here when… when I knew that…”

“Ooh, that’s too bad.” Andrew’s interruption lets Nathaniel realize that there are still other people in the room, and he curses himself for momentarily forgetting it. “Because that’s exactly what we’d like to know too. What are you doing here, little fledgling?” He has moved completely in front of Kevin now, and the smile on his face somehow seems less intense than the last time Nathaniel has seen the midget.

The Foxes’ Coach nods in agreement to the question, eyeing Nathaniel with a suspicion that is completely justified, even though his slight grimace makes it obvious that he doesn’t quite like the wording. “That would be some really useful knowledge, yes.”

“Like I said, I don’t really know either,” Nathaniel says, deciding to go for the most direct yet least revealing approach. “I was in a kind of desperate situation and this was the only place to go that I could think of at the time. The only person that I thought could help me out. Obviously, I was wrong and, honestly, I really should have known better. But, what’s the saying? Hindsight’s twenty-twenty? Great, I’ll know better next time. Not that there will be a next time. Because there won’t be one. My life would be a much happier one if I didn’t have to see any of you again—except for Abby, maybe. She seems nice.” He smiles at the nurse, and her lips twitch as if she isn’t quite sure if she should return it or not encourage him. _Clever woman, that one_ , Nathaniel thinks when she settles for something between a smile and a frown, leaning towards the latter but unable to let go of her natural kindness. A clever, kind woman and she seems like such a strange creature to him. Strange and dangerous. Kindness always has a price, after all, and it’s only a matter of time until it will be seen how much Nathaniel has to pay for Abby’s.

Kevin gapes and he looks like he would take a step forward if Andrew wasn’t blocking his way. “What are you talking about, Nathaniel? What did you _do_? Why would he—”

Nathaniel laughs and it’s an ugly sound that hurts in his chest and reverberates bitingly in every fiber of his body. He feels cold all over, and yet there’s the spark of anger that loosens his tongue. “What did _I_ do? Is that really the first question you want to ask me?” There’s that laugh again, and Nathaniel would claw his throat out if both his hands were free. “I can’t believe you. That’s so typical. But I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask if I’ll ever be able to play Exy again.”

Kevin’s eyes widen as if he hasn’t even thought about that before then. “ _Can_ you?”

“All right, Kevin,” Wymack steps in just as Nathaniel thinks _’fuck it’_ and prepares himself to lunge at the bastard. “Time to shut up now.”

“Why don’t you go fetch some water for Nathaniel? I’m sure he must be parched by now,” Abby adds and her voice is as soft as ever even though her face is void of a smile when she looks at Kevin. Kevin can’t look her in the eye as he nods, gaze averted from everyone, and he leaves the room with drooping shoulders that contradict his stiff movements.

As soon as he’s disappeared from view, breathing becomes a little easier and a little more difficult. Now, the middle aged man who looks strong enough to overwhelm all of them makes up one third of the other people in the room and it sends a chill down Nathaniel’s spine. He ignores the fear building in his chest, the quiver in his stomach, and instead decides to finally talk business. “So, what’s going to happen now? Or, more importantly, what has been happening since..?”

It turns out that it really has only been yesterday. It’s been only yesterday in the early hours of the morning that he’s tripped over game controllers in a shitty dorm room, and it’s been only a little over a week since the national Exy banquet (there’s a reason the Moriyamas aren’t known for their creativity), since shit has hit the fan.

Nathaniel’s head swims at the dawning realization and he suddenly has to wonder if Stuart even knows where he’s been headed to. A week usually suffices for forging good quality documents, and Stuart should have gotten in touch with him by now. Nathaniel isn’t quite sure if it’s a good sign that he’s managed to shake off even his uncle or if he should be worried about the reason for the delay. And what if the Moriyamas catch up to him before long? What if they don’t care about disposing of his body at Palmetto State instead of at Evermore? And what of his father? Does he already know—?

Nathaniel swallows against the lump in his throat and distracts himself by taking a deep breath. “All right, then. When am I to leave?”

He doesn’t expect the silence he receives in return to his question, and he _absolutely_ doesn’t expect the glare Abby directs his way.

“ _What?_ ”

“You won’t move anywhere further than to the bathroom for at least a week, young man.” Nathaniel surprised to hear the nurse sound so stern, so resolute. He doesn’t meet her eyes, even though the mocking grin Andrew directs his way isn’t much better.

“Why? I’m fine,” he protests, unable to just give in despite being aware of just how much he’s stretching the truth with that. _He’s had worse_ , after all, and it’s also only a partial truth, but he doesn’t mean he has to say so. Wymack looks at him with an expression that speaks of bone-tired weariness while Abby mostly looks sad, her mouth pinched into a tight line. Nathaniel kind of wants to disappear into the soft mattress, what with feeling those heavy stares on him and being in such a weak and cornered position. Andrew, meanwhile, stares at Nathaniel with a look on his face that Nathaniel can’t properly decipher for the life of him. There’s a spark of curiosity in those hazel eyes, overshadowed by apathy, by distrust and a strange thoughtfulness, and his tightly clenched fists and rigid set of shoulders speak of some kind of burning anger that doesn’t add up with the description of his drugs. Andrew shouldn’t be able to be in a violent mood, shouldn’t be able to be anything but high as a kite.

Then, Kevin comes back with a plastic bottle of water, breath already stinking of alcohol, and Nathaniel shifts on the bed at his approach, sitting up straighter and preparing to reach for the alarm clock on the bedside table, the only kind of weapon within arm’s reach. It’s a conditioned reaction and Kevin knows him well enough to anticipate it.

The dark-haired man comes to a halt a few paces in front of Nathaniel, looks at him for a few agonizingly long seconds before he sighs, and in that moment, he looks almost more defeated than he did back then, splayed on dark hardwood floor, when the white home court line slowly turned red with spilled blood and his hopeless gaze was directed at Nathaniel who’s on his knees and cradles Jean’s head between his hands, mere meters away but unable to do anything and—

Kevin seems to guess the direction his thoughts have taken, but he underestimates how volatile and unpredictably precarious Nathaniel’s mental state is lately. When Kevin tosses him the bottle in order to get him out of his head, Nathaniel doesn’t react the way Kevin’s used to, doesn’t only produce the usual spark of annoyance slash gratefulness. No. While Nathaniel does catch to bottle out of the air with his usual, lightning-quick reflexes, hyper-aware of everything, he then picks up the alarm clock in the same smooth movement and hurls it at Kevin. If he can’t seem to get rid of the demons in his head, he wants to at least chase away those he can actually touch.

Kevin narrowly manages to duck out of the way, and the clock shatters against the wall behind him with a smash that catches even Nathaniel a little off-guard. Only Andrew looks relatively unmoved, although he plays with the edge of one of his armbands and narrows his eyes at Nathaniel in a way that could be considered as threatening as well as interested. Nathaniel fights against a cold shiver.

There’s another span of silence, and then, “Sorry, Abby,” Nathaniel says, forcefully collected as screws and pieces of plastic tumble to the floor. “I’ll replace it. It’s just—he annoyed me.”

“Oh, that’s… No, that’s okay. It was an old thing anyway, I just haven’t come around to buying a new one yet.” Abby smiles good-naturedly, if a little shaky, and one wouldn’t have guessed that only a second ago, she’s squealed in surprise at the flying alarm clock. If Nathaniel feels shocked at this continuing kindness, he doesn’t let it show on his face, and instead just tentatively smiles back at her. He’s even more taken aback when Abby winks at him and adds, “And it’s understandable, really. Kevin can be quite annoying.”

Nathaniel doesn’t really want to speak right at the moment, and he figures Kevin’s _“Hey!”_ is only a muffled protest is a good enough reaction to that. So, he ignores the arising conversation and takes a sip from the water, subconsciously searching for any kinds of hidden substances and only when he tastes nothing but water does he allow himself to quench his thirst.

Eventually, after giving himself some time to consider his situation, he sets the bottle down, licks his lips and looks back at the adults.

“Could you leave us alone for a minute, please? I think Andrew would like to speak me alone.”

“I don’t like that word,” Andrew states flatly and Nathaniel blinks at him, but the other boy ignores him in favor of David Wymack, who looks torn between various reactions.

Just as he opens his mouth though, Andrew interjects, not at all reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Coach. I won’t damage him any worse. We’ll just have a little chit-chat, yes? Boys be boys and all. No, don’t look at me like that, Coach, I won’t. At least not physically and not anywhere vital. So little faith, honestly. You can leave now. Shoo.”

Andrew waves them away pointedly and Nathaniel steels himself for… for everything really. He doesn’t know what to expect from Andrew, can’t rely on earlier experiences with interrogation like he could back at the Nest or the house in Baltimore or the other _‘safe’_ houses. Nathaniel doesn’t know Andrew’s kind of violence yet, so he’ll have to be prepared for everything. After all, it can hardly be worse than what he’s already survived, right?

Then again, who knows if Kevin hasn’t only escaped from the clutches of one monster to seek refuge in those of another? Monsters are everywhere, and Kevin is well acquainted with them, after all.

But then, so is Nathaniel and he knows how to handle them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me, again. 
> 
> I won't even bother you long this time except to ask for feedback as usual. (Apropos, do you think it's boring? Because I know it's not as fast-paced as many other fics out there, so I'd just like to know if you like the way I write or if I should be more action-focused...)
> 
> Just one quick question out of curiosity so I can come back to this later on and compare: What do you think of Seth? Canon-Seth, not the one that will make his appearance here? :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and for anyone interested, here's my reason for Nathaniel behaving the way he does, especially in this and the next chapter(s):  
> Nathaniel's upbringing is obviously different from Neil's, for a start. Nathaniel doesn’t lie as much as Neil because he wasn't on the run and in the Nest he’s learned that lying won’t get him anywhere. It’s easier to tell the truth in the rashest and most offensive way possible; making it so absurd people aren’t always inclined to believe him, which sometimes even works to his advantage. He has shaped his truths into sharp weapons and he knows how to wield them as deadly as Andrew does in canon. Plus, he’s also learned of the advantage of evasiveness, of skirting around questions and answers, and it works so much better than the lying...  
> Hope this makes sense :)
> 
> Bye!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew and Nathaniel finally get to talk and some truth is revealed.  
> Kevin is a mess but what else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know.  
> I think this chapter is relatively okay?   
> Although I'm really not sure if the interactions are really realistic and all... Let me know if something really bothers you!
> 
> Now... Andrew and Nathaniel are left (mostly) alone, and things may turn out a little different than you'd expect.

Wymack actually leaves without saying anything, simply dragging a very reluctant and protesting Abby with him, and even shutting the door behind them. Probably a little too loudly and in order to get a point across, but really, who cares?

Andrew grins as he turns back towards Nathaniel Wesninski, and it’s devoid of any of its usual cheer. He’s skipped his noon-dose and soon withdrawal will set in, but having this conversation drugged out of his mind is a strict no-no.

It’s been very interesting so far, and Andrew has found himself reluctantly surprised on more than one occasion. But he can think about those little surprises later.

Right now, he’s got a caged Raven in front of him, and today’s goal is to get the bird to sing one way or another.

“Hello, Nathaniel. So we meet again.”

Nathaniel Wesninski is all smiles on his position on the bed, but there’s a hollowness in his expression that rivals Andrew’s own. There’s a steeliness in that ice-blue gaze that hasn’t been there before, though, and Nathaniel seems to have put away everything that’s been shaking him apart the day before. He seems much more in control now, and Andrew knows exactly how dangerous that makes him.

“That we do,” Nathaniel replies, and even though every muscle in his body is tense, his voice has an unmistakable lilt to it—it’s the subtle, apparently bored and uncaring challenge to _‘show me your worst’_ that’s usually Andrew’s expertise. “I still haven’t decided if I like sober or drugged Andrew better. Care to show me the difference again? I’m not sure if I correctly remember everything from Tuesday night—or was it Wednesday morning?”

 _He’s quick_ , Andrew has to admit. Even Kevin hasn’t figured out his momentary sobriety yet, judging by the stupid look on his face and the immediate exclamation, an accusing “ _Andrew_ —”.

“How about we play a game?” Andrew asks calmly, interrupting whatever protest Kevin has at the ready.

“I’m not really fond of games, to be honest,” Nathaniel Wesninski says and Andrew blinks at the sudden change in attitude, at how easily Nathaniel offers up the truth and manages to take the wind out of Andrew’s sails without a single elaborate threat being uttered. It’s not something many people are able to do, treating words and truths like that, weaponizing them into lightning quick arrows that never miss their target. Skills like that don’t come naturally, and in Andrew’s experience, the origin of such talents usually makes for an interesting story.

Andrew narrows his eyes as he reconsiders the Raven in a different light and he notes how the red-head doesn’t fidget under the scrutinizing, staring back defiantly instead. How curious.

“Oh, that’s too bad. But I think you’ll like this one. It’s creatively called ‘Truths’—I ask you stuff and you answer honestly. The stakes are high enough to make you care, I’m sure.” Andrew pauses here, intending to get a rise out of the young man, and sighing when the only reaction shown is a raised eyebrow. _Oh well, have it your way then, and enjoy it while you can_. “I can tell you this much, though: it has to do with your stay here and whether you’ll leave with a few additional holes in your body or not.”

Nathaniel Wesninski still looks thoroughly unimpressed, and his answer catches Andrew off-guard in a way he _absolutely_ doesn’t like.

“One would think your Coach, or at least the owner of this nice little abode should be the ones to decide about that, but oh well. I’m not about to argue with you since I get the impression that I’d have to put more effort into that than I currently have to give. Anyways. This ‘game’ you’re proposing here doesn’t seem quite fair to me. You’re wrong, you see? I don’t really care about my stay here and feel free to go ahead trying to put any more holes into my body—we’ll see how you like the outcome.” Kevin shrinks back against the wall, making a low, desperate sound in the back of his throat at seeing the way Nathaniel’s features twist into an altogether different grimace for a moment, but Andrew barely flicks him a glance, his interest captured by the very thing that seems to terrify Kevin. “Therefore, let’s change the rules a little. You get five questions. But then it’s my turn.”

Andrew takes a moment to think about that, then he nods. “All right. But we’ll ask alternately. It’ll be more fun that way.”

Nathaniel only tilts his head in answer, causing too-long auburn strands of hair to fall into his eyes, and takes another few sips of water, but his attention is on Andrew as he leans more comfortably against the wall, preparing himself for this to take some time.

“I start. This wasn’t here the last time I saw you,” Andrew eventually says, tapping a rhythm against his own cheekbone. “Why is that so?”

“You like it? Riko gifted it to me in compensation for my devastating, unfortunate and untimely death—his words, not mine.”

Kevin chokes on something unintelligible and sits heavily down on the floor, but for once, neither Nathaniel nor Andrew pay him any mind. They stare at each other for a minute, waiting for the other to make the first move, until Andrew hums in acknowledgement of the cleverly veiled truth. It’s an acceptable answer—in no way satisfying for the strange curiosity buzzing under Andrew’s skin, but it’s not like he cares enough to waste another, more specific question on the topic.

“I don’t,” he says after another beat, an answer to a question he’s sure Nathaniel hasn’t meant to ask.

Thus, it’s confusing to see a slightly pleased grin form on Nathaniel Wesinski’s lips, and only when he gestures for Andrew to continue does he realize that instead of outsmarting the Raven, he walked right into his trap. Sure, by the looks of it he’s passed the test, but still. Andrew crosses his arms and suppresses a scowl, annoyed at himself and even more so at Nathaniel Wesninski. Pursing his lips, he doesn’t let himself dwell on it, mentally wording his next question instead, now that he knows that this particular Raven seems to possess more than just a birdbrain.

“How curious. I’m wondering whether that has any connection to what you’re doing here.” Andrew raises a warning finger when Nathaniel opens his mouth to say _‘it does_ ’, because for one, that’s rather obvious, and for the other, he hasn’t asked a question. The man grins again, nods in approval for Andrew to go on, and the buzzing under Andrew’s skin becomes louder, itchier at the nerve of this guy. _Goddamn it_. Andrew stabs his finger in his direction, imaging it were a good, old-fashioned sword and would let him get rid of his problems all at once. “So, tell me, Nathaniel Wesninski: Why are you really here? And focus on the _why_ , not the _here_. What have you done that led Riko to want you dead so badly?”

“That’s two questions, Andrew Doe. Fair warning: I’m good with numbers, so don’t try to trick me.” Meaning: _‘mess with me and I mess with you’_ and, _oh_ , Nathaniel has just proven to be so much more interesting, both in the most amusing and most dangerous of ways. He flinches when someone uses his full name but he’s not afraid to fight back just as dirty, if not even dirtier. Andrew hates that he finds this kind of unpredictable attitude so much more satisfying than Kevin’s reliable cowardice—although, on second thought, there also seems to be more to that cowardliness than Andrew has previously assumed.

“I’m very well aware, thank you. And I really hate it when people try to evade. That’s your clue. Hop onto the stage and sing, little Raven, sing.”

“I thought we already talked about the ‘little’ part,” Nathaniel grumbles, seemingly good-humoredly and as if this were a running joke between friends rather than a reference to the first disastrous meeting eleven days ago, but he fumbles with the edge of his newly acquired splint and this nervous tick gives him away. He doesn’t look at Andrew, but seems to correctly read the way Andrew shifts his position as disapproval of that comment. Clearing his throat, Nathaniel glances at Kevin and looks away again as soon as he takes note of the huddled and miserable form of the ex-Raven. Kevin still sits on the floor, clutching his knees with the most pathetic look on his face as he follows the conversation without uttering a single word. Andrew bites back a scoff, unwilling to interrupt Nathaniel now that he finally has him talking.

“Ah, well. The answer to the first question is complicated. The one to the second one is—probably even more complicated. Because, you see, _I_ haven’t really done anything wrong, not in the way you’d think. I mean, sure, I might have provoked him a little, but no more so than usual, not enough to provoke this kind of reaction. I’m not _that_ stupid. Not when I know what’s happened and … I’m not stupid enough to… I _know_ what he’s like on his bad days and this wasn’t just a bad day, this was— _cataclysmal_.” Nathaniel closes his eyes and rather unsuccessfully tries to suppress a full-body shudder, whereas Kevin doesn’t even bother to hide his horror.

“Look at this, the birdbrain knows big words,” Andrew says when the silence threatens to become overwhelming, interrupted only by Kevin’s dying animal sounds and Nathaniel’s harsh breathing. The bluntness of the comment gives the both of them a moment to gather their thoughts and Andrew really doesn’t know why he’s being so nice today. Especially when his fingers start to tremble subtly and the beginnings of nausea settle in his stomach. “All the same, that wasn’t the answer I was looking for. Rather looks like even more evasion to me.”

“I’m getting there,” Nathaniel point out and his voice only cracks a little. “As I was saying, Riko was angry. Contrary to popular belief, though, the reason for that anger wasn’t me or something I did. No, _no_ , this one was all on you. In case you want to know why, just imagine how frustrating it must be to go through all the pains of rather spontaneously arranging a national Exy banquet for sixty collegiate Exy teams—that’s about a thousand and two hundred people—in Castle Evermore just because of one single person. Imagine how absolutely maddening it must be when, eventually, you’re not even able to talk to this one person, all because of some random blond midget goth who thinks himself the cock of the walk.” Nathaniel’s growing smile isn’t a pretty thing, it’s predatory, self-mocking. “I’m sure it isn’t difficult to imagine the extent of Riko’s unhappiness after that, not even for people incapable of empathy. Therefore, I guess, the only thing about that whole mess that you can really blame on me is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or don’t you think so?”

Andrew pushes himself off of the wall and takes a step into the room, stopping a moment later and gritting his teeth, unsure of how to react, why he suddenly feels so restless. There’s no rational reason for his heart to beat so erratically and no explanation for the anger making his fists clench.

 _He doesn’t care_.

“Are you supposed to be some kind of message, then? ‘Kevin come back to me or else.’” For once, Andrew speaks before thinking, and when he realizes the waste of his question, he curses himself, especially for the admittedly bad imitation of Riko’s voice. He doesn’t let his disgruntlement show, though, and painstakingly makes sure his impassive face is as impassive as ever. He really shouldn’t allow himself to slip up like that, but withdrawal makes it increasingly harder to care.

The smile gracing Nathaniel’s lips becomes amused in an empty sort of way when he looks back at Andrew, as if there’s a funny joke to that no one else is aware of, and Andrew notes how he carefully avoids looking at the other person in the room.

“I don’t think he really had a plan in mind when he … did all that.” Nathaniel doesn’t even need to gesture to convey what he means. “He needed an outlet, and well, I was there. So no, not really. At least not until he broke my fingers and cracked my ribs and… well, then he realized that I would be out of the game for too long. One broken finger you can compensate for with the rest of the hand, two are much more difficult, and healing takes some time. Of course, this only made him angrier, and by the time he came back to his senses I was pretty much done for. I think. It becomes a bit hazy around this part. But I can guess what happened then. I mean, it’s not easy to explain a broken player, at least not a so heavily injured one, and Riko never was one to bother dealing with failures, so why not get rid of me completely and make use of the body while he’s at it? He made one of the Ravens help him with the tattoo, gave me a pretty speech about humiliation and ungratefulness and all this other crap and then, after he left, well… Something apparently went wrong in effectively killing me and that’s the reason why I’m still alive and not _just_ a message. Or at least that’s what I gathered. I’m not one-hundred percent sure.” He shrugs it off as if uncaring either way, his pale face showing no emotion, his voice remaining infuriatingly monotonous throughout the whole story.

 _But that doesn’t explain why or how you broke into our dorm room all by yourself_ , Andrew thinks and doesn’t say. That’s a question for another time. He’s wasted too many already and not even asked the most important one.

Meanwhile, Kevin has taken to whimpering in his corner, hands covering his face and body shaking and Andrew pauses for a moment to wonder whether there’s something seriously wrong with the man. Or rather, something wronger? Something more wrong? He’s always been damaged goods at best, after all. But this behavior seems out-of-character even for Kevin.

“I think you broke him,” Andrew muses when the almost-silence stretches and the blunt statement startles Nathaniel Wesninski into a laugh.

It’s not a nice laugh.

It’s borne of desperation and self-deprecation, of bone-crushing fear and relief, hopelessness and helplessness and that stupidly stubborn determination not to go down without putting up a fight no matter what, and Andrew can’t help but think the sentiment familiar.

Other than that observation, though, Andrew doesn’t verbally acknowledge anything Nathaniel has said, instead he settles for thinking it through by himself at a later point, when nausea doesn’t tug at his stomach as if it wants to pull him under, when he can trust his legs to hold him up more steadily.

Still, Andrew stays and watches on silently as the laughing slowly turns into gasping for breath into fighting not to lose his mind into clinging to reality and life with everything he has. It’s not a pretty sight, but it’s also something familiar, and Andrew truly begins to dislike Nathaniel Wesninski. Begins to detest his own mind for rooting him place until he can be sure that the Raven doesn’t slip into a panic attack, that he manages to come back down from the edge of hysteria without losing himself. Begins to—no, _does_ —hate the twinge of guilt and responsibility that pricks at his lungs when he takes a deep breath and forcibly swallows down the _‘look what you’ve done’_ , the _‘you’ve been a really bad boy, AJ’_ that ring in his ears as an echo of past nightmares. Goddamn Nathaniel Wesninski and the trouble he brings with him.

Andrew is used to tuning out the images his memory provides him with, though, and going through withdrawal only helps in making other things more important. So, he stays silent and unmoving until Nathaniel Wesninski manages to calm himself down, until his gaze becomes sharper once again and the fingers of his right hand relax where they’ve been grabbing the splint, and then Andrew flatly states, “Score’s four to three. Next turn’s yours. But we’re going to continue this conversation another time. You’re off the hook for now, enjoy it while it lasts. The moment I hear about you doing something stupid, though… Well. Bye.”

Andrew’s smile falls flat with the drugs out of his system for the moment being, but he does give a two-fingered salute while leaving the room. His next goal is getting Kevin down to where the alcohol is so that the liquor may drown his miserable sounds because Andrew really has had enough of dealing with his pathetic ass alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now the point has come where I think Andrew’s behavior is really rather OOC... What do you think? Would he back off to quickly in canon, even if it’s just for now? I’m really unsure about it... 
> 
> (Plus, writing Andrew is such a struggle because every time I want to use the word ‘feel’ or something synonymous I have to remind myself that Andrew doesn’t feel in a way where he’s acknowledging it like that. This is also why I think this Andrew’s POV in this chapter is rather a mess-up, because he hates so much about Nathaniel already. If you catch my drift.)
> 
> Also, this chapter is rather short because initially I planned on splitting it in half with a POV-change, so that now would start Nathaniel's POV, but then it would be really long for my standards... If you ask nicely, though, I may post the other part of this aka the next chapter already on Friday or Saturday ;)
> 
> Thank you for all the great feedback you've been leaving me, though, I really appreciate it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter is really rocky and I was (still am) struggling a lot with it, but I hope you'll make it through and still enjoy the rest of it...
> 
> Also, I apologize for the delay and the non-response to the comments, but it's been a really busy week and so confusing and yeah... This may also be why the quality of the chapter is a little lower - it's quite pieced together, and I've been in a strange mood lately, so if anything's confusing or doesn't make any sense, just say so and I'll try to edit it appropriately. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy some Nathaniel / Wymack interaction and ... yeah.  
> :)

_Well, that went great_ , Nathaniel thinks as he intently listens to Andrew’s and Kevin’s footsteps in order to make sure that they really do go back downstairs. And in order to block out his own thoughts for a while longer.

All too soon, though, the footsteps fade into nothing; a breeze that rattles the shutters is the only sound left to keep Nathaniel company, and Jean’s missing presence suddenly feels like a gaping wound. Nathaniel is good at inciting and causing injuries, at tearing open old scabs and scars, but he’s never been good at stitching those wounds closed and letting them heal. It’s easier to ignore the bloodstains and accept the pain and that’s why he eventually forbids himself to think about his missing partner (and he definitely doesn’t consider the question whether he’s the one who’s actually missing).

To be quite honest, Nathaniel is more than a bit rattled by Andrew’s shrewd perceptiveness, by his ability to pinpoint weaknesses and know where to poke and prod at with words so subtle that you don’t immediately realize you’ve been found out, that you can’t react in time to mask your genuine reaction when the final blow comes. It’s a clever kind of cruelty, and it’s unlike anything he’s used to, but then again, there’s still a certain recognition, a sense of familiarity. Nathaniel is familiar with a great variety of cruelty, after all.

This way of drawing out the truth reminds him of various aspects of his life— _he remembers the weariness of learning how to answer questions truthfully because or else is always_ worse _, even if the answer is one inevitably leading to punishment. Remembers sixteen hours-days blurring together when back at the Nest, running so low on sleep that he’s got trouble not to slur his words, let alone to actually think before speaking. Days when he’s being questioned as to why he goes running to his father like an obedient dog when there’s school and practice and Riko waiting for him, when it’s impossible to ignore the consequences waiting for him back at the Nest and not ignoring them is worse because, right at the moment, he’s expected to take a man apart in every humanly and inhumanly way possible and he’s been awake for days straight and_ —it’s exhausting and draining and this kind of sleep-depriving torture is possibly one of the most traumatizing cruelties that Nathaniel has yet experienced (although there are a lot of experiences nominated for that prize).

Here, though, in present-day South Carolina, it’s not only the constant _keep on your toes_ , _don’t let your guard down_ and _brace yourself_ that exhausts Nathaniel, it’s also the much more complicated _don’t let anyone notice what seeing Kevin like this does to you_ , _don’t let them know_. Nathaniel feels tired in a way that goes much deeper than the purely physical one.

He can’t make sense of any of his feelings, and, honestly, he’s not sure if he even wants to. He hates Kevin and he needs him and he wants him gone but never to step a foot back into the Nest, and he feels so bitter about Kevin’s easy escape and so relieved and he’s so fucking tired of him even after only half an hour of seeing him again. He wants to throw Kevin into his dungeons and not think about him and everything he represents until it’s time for Nathaniel to leave because then he finally won’t have the time to think about him anymore because fighting for survival tends to have an all-consuming presence.

Or, if that evasion of thinking shouldn’t work out, Nathaniel just wants to sleep for a decade and wake up in a better world, and _oh_ , how lovely would that be. Maybe by then, his father would have died in a prison-brawl and Riko would have been shot in the head by his own brother because Ichiro finally realized what a nuisance he is, and that’s such a pretty mental image that Nathaniel almost regrets the fact that he’s never been one to indulge in daydreams. No positive ones, at least. Nathaniel is well aware that waking up in a better world isn’t a logical concept—it’s the people in it that are cruel and, after all, history shows well enough that people won’t ever change. It doesn’t matter who he is and where he is, the people around him will always be the same, will always be out for their own personal gain only and it’s always all about power and control and money and even a hundred years of sleep won’t change that fact.

And not even the Foxes’ Coach, who’s now standing in the doorway with an inscrutable expression on his face, is an exception to this rule, no matter how much he claims that his ideals are genuine. Second chances are for people who are too blind to see that the world won’t even allow you a first one.

“Alright, kid,” David Wymack eventually begins, and Nathaniel focuses on glaring daggers at him so that he doesn’t wince at the term. The Coach only sighs and loosens his stance, crossed arms relaxing just a bit as he stares back at Nathaniel, unimpressed by the open resentment thrown into his face as if this was a daily occurrence for him. “What?” he sighs, “You _are_ just a kid, aren’t you?”

“I’m eighteen,” Nathaniel snaps, and he absolutely doesn’t sound petulant.

Wymack lifts an eyebrow, and somehow, he seems amused. “A high school kid, then. The term still applies.”

Nathaniel can feel the anger build in his chest at this … this condescension, and it fogs his brain additionally to the constant, dull throb of pain. He does his best to fight down his (father’s) temper because this man is old enough to _be_ his father and he really shouldn’t piss him off, so he forces his voice to come out neutrally when he says, “I’m graduating in a few…” but suddenly it doesn’t really matter anymore because no, he won’t graduate on May eleventh, and if he doesn’t graduate he can forget about actually being able to _do_ something with his life other than going pro on Riko’s wishes, but that doesn’t matter anymore either, does it, because in a few days he’ll be on the run, alone and with forged documents in his pockets, and a high school diploma will be the last thing he has to worry about.

“Actually, never mind,” Nathaniel hedges, forcefully composes himself and changes the course of the conversation. “What do want?”

“Make sure Andrew didn’t break you. Looks like it’s harder than he’s expected it to be, though. Anyway. The question stands. What the hell are you doing here when you’re graduating so soon?” Coach Wymack seems difficult to distract, and Nathaniel is slowly but surely growing tired of answering pointless questions, of being so openly honest to people who haven’t done a thing to deserve or to compel his answers.

“What do you do with a shattered Exy racquet?” Nathaniel retorts instead, but since it’s a rhetorical question he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Exactly. You toss it out. You don’t get all sentimental and wonder about all the _what if_ ’s and about what kind of life the racquet could have led if things had been different. Things aren’t different and everything else doesn’t matter. And that’s that.”

“That seems like a rather pessimistic way of thinking.”

“Why? It’s not pessimistic if it’s true, isn’t it? Or do you honestly shed tears over every piece of garbage you have to throw away?”

Wymack makes a face as if he’d bitten into something sour, and Nathaniel would probably have laughed about it if the man hadn’t also taken a few steps into the room, his big, muscled frame blocking every escape route accessible to Nathaniel’s currently weakened body.

“Kid, you’re really something else,” he says, and his tone of voice speaks of a life-weariness that Nathaniel is all too familiar with, even though he can’t imagine what the Coach could possibly have to worry about.

“So I’ve been told.”

Wymack sighs and rubs a hand over his face, and it’s probably a trick of light or something, but he seems to be growing just a bit taller, his shoulders leaner, hair flashing reddish for a moment, and Nathaniel doesn’t care about the pain flaring to life when he flinches back to press his back against the headboard and wraps his arms around his knees, heart beating in his throat as the Coach approaches even further. Nathaniel’s whole body is tensed up and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the man, anticipating a heavy blow or a knife to the face or worse, and he can’t bring himself to relax a single muscle even when the only heavy thing that the Coach does is sitting down at the foot of the mattress.

“Listen kid, I know you have no reason to trust me and quite honestly, I have none to trust you either considering what your presence does to Kevin, but… Nobody has died yet and since I’d like to keep it that way, tell me something: Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I…” Nathaniel can’t quite bring his voice to work at first, still fumbling for a grip on reality. “I… Well. It’s… Not exactly. I’ll figure something out, though, don’t worry. I won’t bother you much longer. As soon as you let me go I’ll be out of here and you won’t have to see my face any longer.”

“That’s…” David Vincent Wymack seems to have trouble finding words too and Nathaniel really just wants to _sleep_ , to escape and forget. He’s so tired of… of _everything_ and sleep sounds really beautiful right now. “That’s not what I meant, kid. Just… You heard Abby. No moving around for at least a week and I dare you to argue with her, I really do. She’s a beast when it comes to things like this.” The tall, buff man actually shudders at the image and Nathaniel blinks, feeling completely adrift. Maybe the theory about an alternate universe wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

Nathaniel rakes his fingers through his hair, pulls roughly enough to hurt, but this whole mess doesn’t magically start making any more sense. “But I… I can’t just _stay_ ,” he mutters to himself, trying to get the dangerous idea out of his head, rather than intending the comment as an actual answer.

“Yes you can. At least until you’re no longer in danger of ripping a dozen stitches the moment you fucking move. _Then_ we can talk about it again, and not a second earlier. So don’t think too much about it.”

“But—”

“Have you recently taken a look in the mirror? Sorry to say it, kid, but you look fucking awful. You’re keeping your ass right here where it is except for when you need to use the bathroom, understood?”

And of course, now, Nathaniel flinches violently because _‘mirror image’_ and _‘Understood, Junior?’_ hit too close to home when they come from a middle-aged man and he quickly nods his head because as much as he loves to deny Riko, openly disagreeing with Nathan is another matter altogether, is something he’s learned the consequences of when he was but a toddler.

Nathaniel doesn’t understand the look Wymack gives him at that, doesn’t understand why the man would be anything but pleased at having managed to compel Nathaniel into submission without even needing to resort to other, more bothersome and messy methods. Maybe he just isn’t satisfied with his answer yet, Nathaniel eventually reasons, and the reaction to that thought is automatic.

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel says thickly around the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the fact that he feels like he’s suffocating, that the world is spinning around him so fast he’s feeling dizzy and that all he can see are ice-blue eyes and an auburn buzz-cut, are cruel lines cut into a face that looks so much like an older version of his own, are a mocking smile and the taunting way the blade caresses his skin, always only the minimum of pressure away from cutting into him.

“Goddamn it…” David Vincent Wymack’s voice only dimly registers over the blood roaring in Nathaniel’s ears, and it’s only when he’s shouting “Abby! I need your help here!” that Nathaniel manages to focus on the sound and let it pull him back to the present.

Nathaniel then realizes belatedly that the man isn’t on the bed anymore and he curses himself for getting lost in his mind so goddamn easily. Meanwhile, the Coach has taken to pacing the room, occasionally darting one of those inscrutable, searching glances at him, and he passes the bed several times until he realizes that Nathaniel is meeting his eye again.

Then, he stops in his tracks. “So,” Wymack begins, trails off. Swallows, a hint of redness creeping up his neck. He looks at the door as if hoping for help to appear, but Abby isn’t here yet.

“So,” Nathaniel answers and he makes sure that his voice and face are well composed. No more freaking out while others are present, he tells himself.

An awkward silence hangs in the air and Nathaniel hasn’t known that adults could be awkward too. David Wymack stares at him for a few long, uncomfortable moments, then he clears his throat and says, “Look, kid. I don’t know what you’ve been through and I don’t necessarily care, but you’ve got to know one thing about me: I’m not going to hurt you. I have never, ever hit someone without provocation, and I’m sure as hell not going to start with you.”

Nathaniel doesn’t believe him, _of course not_ , _(how could he, with his mother’s voice still ringing in his ear)_ , but he inclines his head in acknowledgement of that statement anyway and then flicks his gaze over to where Abby is entering the room, thankful not to be alone with the Coach any longer.

“What’s the problem, David?” Abby asks, but her concerned eyes are on Nathaniel.

“I—It’s… um. He doesn’t believe me when I say that you won’t let him move anytime soon,” Wymack eventually answers and Nathaniel lets himself feel grateful for this neat omission of about ninety percent of the truth. It makes him wonder what else the Coach has lied about, though, but before he can consider this more properly, Abby’s amused laugh scatters his thought. When was the last time he’s actually heard somebody laugh out of genuine amusement with no undertone speaking of either violence or desperation? Did he ever? Nathaniel shakes off the heavy-weighing question when he realizes that the answer is a simple _never_ and he doesn’t think about what that may say about him.

“I’m afraid he’s right though, Nathaniel. You’d do best not to argue with me when it comes to medical decisions, okay?” Nathaniel absentmindedly notices that Abby stands a little too close to Wymack if there really only was a business relationship between Coach and team nurse, that she leans in even closer as she looks at Nathaniel with this softened expression and Nathaniel, suddenly and despicably, feels the urge to wipe that damned smile off her face. How can she look at him and show nothing but kindness? How can she not cringe away and be disgusted with him even though she knows what it looks like under his shirt, even though she _has to_ know exactly that he’s nothing but a discarded possession that lets other people do whatever they want with his body? It’s so fucking dangerous to let himself be deceived like this (he knows the kind of twisted lies that can hide behind such a smile), to fall for her kindness (he knows and yet he hesitates) and not question her motives more rigorously, (but Nathaniel really can’t think straight anymore, can’t make out what’s real and what’s not). It’s too blinding and too opaque and his mouth opens before he can make a conscious effort of thinking through things.

“But I—No, wait, I’m not trying to argue with what you’ve said. It’s just… I don’t understand. Why would you do any of that? I—Why would you waste your time and things on me, why would you let me stay in your house, why would… You don’t know me. You don’t know what I—”

“Hey. Hey, Nathaniel, look at me.” Abby approaches him slowly when he can’t _think_ anymore, and her words are as soft as the look in her eyes, even though her voice rings with a certain tone of _‘I’ve got you, don’t worry’_ and Nathaniel isn’t sure whether it has the hoped-for calming effect on him or whether it just unnerves him additionally. “Don’t worry about it. We’re Foxes, it’s our job to look after people in need of help and second chances. The future doesn’t matter right now. The only things you should worry about at the moment is healing and getting back on your feet. We’ll take everything else from there, all right?”

Before Nathaniel can think of an appropriate reaction, Wymack grumbles his agreement and says, “I’ll go grab you some lunch and while you eat we’ll see about what to do about your graduation. I’m sure with modern technology and all there’s some way or another for you to graduate from here, yes?”

And with that he gives him a nod, back at looking embarrassed, and hastily leaves the room before Nathaniel even has the chance to react. He stares after him for a moment, utterly unable to figure out why and how the grown man could look so sheepish.

Abby’s fresh bout of laughter follows Wymack down the stairs and she grins at Nathaniel when she sees his confused expression.

“That’s probably one of the nicest things David has ever done for someone. I’m not sure if you can trust this ‘lunch’ to be edible, though. That guy is a real caveman when it comes to these sorts of things, _honestly_.”

 

***

 

The next five days are a mess in a strange sort of way because, generally speaking, they aren’t really a mess; not in the way Nathaniel is used to having messy days. It’s more in the kind of way that is so unfamiliar Nathaniel’s skin seems to be crawling incessantly, a way that is so disgustingly boring and unexciting Nathaniel feels more on edge than he would if he were simply confronted with violence. Violence is familiar and pain always hurts in the same ways, no matter who causes it, and those things have been a constant in his life for so long it seems to be strangely empty and just plain _wrong_ to wake up one morning and only feel the dull pain from a couple weeks ago. There’s something lacking and Nathaniel is afraid he’s going to lose his mind.

Therefore, he clings to everything that breaks up the routine that has begun to settle in since it’s been established first thing Thursday morning on Abby’s orders.

(He’s having regular meals and most often Abby joins him in the guest bedroom despite being in possession of a perfectly fine dining table.)

(He’s completing his finals online over a safe server that won’t let the Moriyamas trace him (even though he doubts that they don’t already know it all and only wait to see how this plays out, ready to strike at any given moment, any wrong move).)

(He’s even adjusting to twenty-four hour days again, although he still often jerks awake in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and searching for Jean, the _‘what time is it?’_ and _‘we need to practice’_ dying on his lips when the only sounds in the room are his own heavy breathing and erratic heartbeat.)

(He doesn’t see either Kevin or the Minyard twins again, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful for that or not. He can’t make sure Kevin doesn’t completely lose his shit when he doesn’t see him, but he also can’t kill him for being annoying, so… he doesn’t know.)

(It’s horrible, maddening, and it’s so hard to just fucking _breathe_.)

All in all, Nathaniel finds himself with too much time on hand, with too many opportunities to run and still hesitating to actually go through with it, and although Nathaniel doesn’t appreciate being told what to do, he doesn’t see a reason to fight Abby on the decision not to move too much until she’s removed most of his stitches. He tells himself that it’s just that, that he stays because it wouldn’t do him any good to run if he leaves behind a trail of blood and stumbles after the first few miles. (He tells himself that he doesn’t linger because of the sense of calm and security Abigail Winfield so strangely provides, that it’s not because he wants to see the moment when the façade eventually cracks and the nurse’s true nature shows. He doesn’t care about the woman that took him in without a second thought.)

So, he tries to distract himself with his online classes as much as he can, studies more for his final exams than he probably studied in total over the course of the last two years, just so he doesn’t have to think about how much of practice he misses, about the horrors Jean now has to face all alone, about his father’s people hot on his trail. Nathaniel does everything in his power not to think about past, present or future, not to let himself be distracted from the most important things at the moment. Instead, he focuses on the tasks at hand, on figuring out escape routes, on studying, contacting his uncle and/or his contacts, on graduating and pulling through with his plans, on running and _staying alive_ until… until the moment comes where he’s safe enough to stop and think about _what now?_. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever get to this point, if he’ll ever get a taste of the kind of freedom that comes with having a choice, with having control over his own life and every aspect of it. In the end, it doesn’t matter, though, because he is _not thinking_ _about that_ , not now and possibly not ever.

And yet, all the while there’s this urge to _run_ , to get away, but he can’t move without hurting and he’s pretty sure it’s killing him.

Then again, so many things and people have tried to kill him, he’s not going to surrender _now_.

Now, he just has to make it through until Abby agrees to let him leave, until the worst of his injuries have healed, and then he’ll take it from there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a hell of a ride... 
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for sticking around for so long.  
> I promise that this has been the last chapter with so much seemingly endless (and probably tiring) insight into Nathaniel's way of thinking and his twisted memories and such, the next one will contain more 'action'. 
> 
> I hope the way I'm setting it up isn't too confusing (for clarifying: Nathaniel has arrived in Palmetto early in the morning of May second which is a Tuesday, the conversation with Andrew (and Kevin) and the bigger part of this chapter happens on Wednesday, the things under *** and in the next chapter happen in the next five days; so, up until Monday, May eight.) and yeah...
> 
> I hope I'll be able to update on schedule next week again and I'll reply to your lovely comments as soon as I find enough time to formulate a coherent answer... :)  
> thanks again and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> (I'll go study now like I should have done ages ago, but oh well.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to realize that past tenses are not my friend. They're bad. And confusing.  
> So, if you find any grave mistakes, report them to me so I can correct them, otherwise just ignore the mess.
> 
> Despite that, I actually really like most of this chapter, so I’m looking forward to your reactions. :)
> 
> Now enjoy some interactions with Abby, Stuart, and Andrew!

Abigail Marie Winfield is a kind-hearted person, someone who truly seems to care about the well-being of other people, who always tries to see the best in others and someone who isn’t afraid to voice her thoughts, her bluntness wrapped up in the nicest of words. And while Nathaniel still hasn’t figured out her motives, he’s begun to relax around her infinitesimally over the last few days; he lets his shoulders slump in moments she isn’t looking at him and doesn’t continuously keep up his stance, muscles tight and ready for a fight. He’s begun to talk to her during meals, at first because silence is almost always worse, then because they’ve come to a deal of sorts, and, eventually, because Abby has slowly but surely ceased being so goddamn soft, and while Nathaniel still doesn’t think she could handle most of his truths, the pity that has practically seeped out of her whenever she’s looked at his injuries has begun to subside, making room for a kind of respect that’s usually hard to earn.

Their deal goes as follows: Nathaniel trades the smallest truths about himself in exchange for all kinds of small favors. (Realistically, Nathaniel knows that the nurse would have granted him those favors without hesitation in any case, but knowing that he isn’t taking complete advantage of her makes him feel a little better, makes him worry a little less about the price he’ll eventually have to pay for her kindness.)

 

This whole thing has begun Thursday at noon, after they’ve sorted through most of the details for the rest of the week, after they’ve established that everyone would be better off if the press didn’t get wind of this and that Nathaniel would stay with Abby instead of going to Wymack’s because here she can better tend to his wounds, and summer break isn’t for another one and a half weeks, they can work out the housing situation when that time comes, there’s no hurry right now and _no_ , Nathaniel, I’m definitely _not_ kicking you out, you stay right where you are, what would you like for lunch? And Nathaniel has stared back at the nurse, blank-faced and taken aback not only because no one has bothered to ask him that question in so long, but also because she talked so fast and impossibly lively, because she seemed to be so completely without reservations, and Nathaniel couldn’t wrap his head around it, let alone come up with a proper response. After several seconds of stunned silence, Abby has sighed, smiled, and then proceeded to throw the Coach out of her house (“You’ve got to learn how to cook at one point too, David”) and eventually she rejoined Nathaniel in the guest bedroom with a plate of home-made sandwiches.

It was a strange, deeply uncomfortable situation for Nathaniel, but no uneasiness in the world could have kept his stomach from growling after going several days without proper food, and Abby only needed to give the plate a little push into Nathaniel’s direction for him to cave in. The woman only just took a single bite from her own sandwich when Nathaniel had already wolfed down a whole tomato-mozzarella one, ignoring his mind trying to tell him to take it slow, ignoring the way his throat protested due to lingering sores and bruises from Riko’s hands, from—Nathaniel wiped his mouth, avoiding Abby’s gaze, and suddenly felt silly and increasingly anxious.

It’s not something he’s used to, any of this, and unfamiliar situations have always made him nervous, made him stupid and careless, and he knows it’s dangerous, has known it since—Nathaniel met Abby’s eyes, and before his brain managed to catch up with his mouth he blurted what had been on his mind for a while now. Possible consequences went completely overlooked (even though he knows that this _will_ have consequences—selfish things always do) when he asked the nurse whether she could buy a burner phone for him since she wasn’t allowing him to move; he would do it by himself if he could, but, _well_ … and he’d pay her back, of course, just not right _now_ and—thankfully Abby silenced him before could say much more, had pushed the sandwich plate in his direction again and simply looked at him until he gave in and took another piece, and neither of them acknowledged the blush that spread over Nathaniel’s cheeks.

Only when Abby had been sure that he was eating did she say that it’s no problem, she’d do it as soon as they’re finished here, under one condition, though, and while Nathaniel’s mind immediately darted towards the darkest of places, she added a teasing “I’ll do it only if you tell me what you’d _really_ like to eat for dinner. Because, you know, the one big advantage of having to feed a guest is not having to bother with coming up with a meal plan all by myself.” and managed to disrupt Nathaniel’s train of thoughts.

He wasn’t sure if she was serious about that or not, but he smiled only a little forcedly in response and told her that anything with chicken would be fine, he isn’t a picky eater after all (not by choice, of course, but he kept silent about _that_ ), and judging by the way Abby beamed back at him, she mostly cared about the fact that he’d responded to her at all, and that was enough for both of them. They both profited from the agreement in some way or another; for some strange reason Abby apparently liked getting to know Nathaniel, and Nathaniel liked the things he was getting out of it and that he was at least making an attempt to repay her for all the troubles he’s putting the nurse through.

True to her word, it was four in the afternoon on Thursday, May fourth, when Nathaniel’s nap was roughly interrupted by a plastic box hitting his mattress a bit too close to his body not to be considered an immediate threat by his sleep-addled brain and he startled awake with labored breath, his entire body tensed for either fight or flight. A SIM-card followed closely behind the phone, though, and Nathaniel only looked up from the items sitting innocently on unfamiliar white bed sheets when he finally managed to connect the dots.

Abby waved a hand at him from the doorway, smiled when he blearily narrowed his eyes, and vanished again before he could properly shake off the urge to grab for either a knife or a gun or an Exy racquet.  

 

Thus, since then Nathaniel no longer thinks too hard about the price tag that hangs around the neck of this new life, about how easily it’ll turn into a noose the moment he won’t be able to pay it anymore, and instead he has begun to trust Abigail Winfield, tentatively and only slightly grudgingly. After all, it’s thanks to her that he’s in possession of a burner phone, a small piece of freedom that only he holds control over, and at first, this thought was overwhelming.

Nathaniel had been at a loss what to do for the better part of an hour, had mechanically gone through the motions of making the device work, but then he’d simply stared at it, unsure of how to proceed now that that first step had been accomplished. The night before, when his inner clock hadn’t let him sleep in spite of his bone-deep tiredness, he’d come up with a carefully laid-out plan of action, but now he found himself unable to follow through with it; it seemed too easy now, too painless.

It was wavering between late Thursday night and early Friday morning by the time Nathaniel finally mustered up the courage to contact his uncle. He typed in the safe number from unerasable memory, deleted it again, digit by digit, (because _what if this isn’t safe_ , _what if they know already and have already killed him and only wait for me to slip up_ and—) and then he retyped it, shutting off his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he moved on from the _To:_ field to _Type your message…_ , and, painstakingly slow, entered his message, the one they’ve agreed upon in case Stuart would be unable to get a hold of him first. And then the semi-colon was sent and Nathaniel’s heart hammered in his chest.

It stopped beating for a second, though, when the phone rang before he even settled back into bed, and it took him some moments to turn back around without hurting his ribs too much, to convince himself that _no, it’s impossible that this is anyone other than his uncle_ , and by the time he picked up, his heart was racing again, pumping adrenaline through his veins, along with anxious relief, an excited rush and prickly _what if’s_. He needn’t have worried though, because as soon as he tentatively broke the silence that hung over the line, Stuart launched into a tirade, cursing him out for being so stupid (“It’s the Moriyamas, kiddo, why would you piss off the Moriyamas?” – “That was a rhetorical question, don’t answer that. I know you and I know them. That’s enough.” – “Of course I’m fucking angry when you’re being so fucking stupid!” and “The Foxes. Of all the things you could have done, you go to the Foxes. Why am I somehow not surprised?”), before he eventually calmed down a bit and apologized.

Then, he took a deep breath and slipped back into his role of crime boss rather than uncle as he began to talk business. He outlined the situation back in Charleston and D.C., which was admittedly pretty precarious at the moment, what with Stuart’s access and resources limited due to his involvement in the happenings, only suspected or not; the Moriyamas weren’t known for handing out their trust freely, and the Hatfords have never worked their way _that_ high up. But, _don’t worry, kiddo, those things don’t directly concern you and they don’t really matter because the plan still stands_ , Stuart just wouldn’t go into more detail right now since he couldn’t be sure how long the line still would be secure.

Eventually Stuart came around to the most important part of the conversation when he recited a vaguely familiar nursery rhyme, similar to the ones Nathaniel and his mother had used to keep track of things while on the run, and Nathaniel was caught off guard by the onslaught of memories. It took a while to forcefully composed himself, so it was only when he asked his uncle to repeat the verses so that he’d be able to find the stash with his new documents that he realized that Stuart hadn’t been serious. (“Oh, kiddo, I’m just joking. I didn’t mean to—I’ll text you the coordinates. Write them down, delete the messages, and destroy the phone. Memorize the coordinates, burn the paper. You know the drill. I’ll get back to you when things quieten down around here. But I have to give you that, you sure know how to stir up shit. I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite nephew. Take care, though, and fucking stay alive. Visit London when you’re passing through.”) He laughed then, too quiet and too strained to be completely genuine, but Nathaniel knew to appreciate the effort, retorted that he was Stuart’s only nephew so there wasn’t much choice, but _thank you_ and _take care yourself_ and _au revoir_ before hanging up.

After that, he sat in the bed of Abigail Winfield’s guest bedroom, staring at the opposite wall without moving a muscle, and several hours passed while he was unable to grasp a proper thought and overthinking everything, terribly calm and shortly before a panic attack.

 

The next morning, his feet felt a tad bit lighter and his chest a little tighter, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the lingering effects of the talk with his uncle or of the nightmare he’d had once he’d drifted off into a fitful sleep. It was at breakfast when Abby noticed the destroyed plastic pieces and the systematically torn shreds of paper in the trash can (Nathaniel hadn’t had a lighter on hand, but he made sure to meticulously get rid of single every piece of evidence) and when she raised her eyebrow at him, Nathaniel’s only reaction was sheepishly asking her for a new, maybe more durable phone and, thankfully, she’d let it slide easily enough (although not without demanding to know his favorite color instead, and, a couple of hours later, she showed up with a new phone and an armful of shirts, pants, boxers and socks in black, blue and the occasional dash of white. She’d swiftly ignored his protests, and Nathaniel’s wariness of her kindness grew in the same way it shrunk.).

 

Aside from the occasional check-in with Jean, which is always as painful as relieving (because at least he’s _alive_ , at least he’s replying to his messages even though he doesn’t have many nice things to say), this is about all human interaction Nathaniel gets during his five days’ stay at Palmetto.

 

On Sunday afternoon, he hits _submit_ on the last of his final exams, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that—just as much as he doesn’t know what to think of the fact that Abby lets him come downstairs for dinner that night when they don’t even eat at the table, opting for the living room and Abby’s favorite movie instead. She’s wanted to watch Nathaniel’s at first, another small truth to get out of him, but since he doesn’t have a favorite movie (he can’t even remember when he’s last seen something on TV that wasn’t somehow Exy-related) Abby hasn’t objected for too long.

Even still, with his stomach full, contentedly warm and relatively safe, Nathaniel can’t bring himself to relax; the unfamiliar situation sets him on edge and his gaze darts from the front door to the floor-to-ceiling window that leads out to the garden to the kitchen door to the downstairs bathroom that he knows also has a window leading outside instead of calmly resting on the television screen as he mentally plays through every possible escape route, and still tries hard not to let Abby know. But the nurse is a clever woman, he’s known that from the beginning, so he isn’t too surprised when she eventually hits _pause_ and tells him to either stop fidgeting and enjoy the movie or to go upstairs and catch some much-needed sleep. Nathaniel doesn’t hesitate long to reach a decision.

From meal conversations he’s learned only too well about how passionate Abby can get over _The Devil wears Prada_ , and he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of her wrath should he disturb her movie-watching and he absolutely doesn’t want to hear one more word about the greatness of Meryl Streep, _whoever the fuck that is_. It’s only when he sets a foot on the first stair, though, that he registers what exactly he’s been thinking and he pauses, clinging onto the banisters as the ground seems to tilt underneath his feet at the thought of how close he’d let that woman, of how careless he’s become over the course of just a few days in the company of another human being that doesn’t try to hurt him every time he gives the slightest reason to. And oh, by Sunday Nathaniel has given Abby so many reasons to lose temper, has been speaking his mind and letting words slip past his lips that he only ever has dared to utter when with Jean, and it’s devastating to come to the realization that despite everything, Abby hasn’t once raised her hand against him, that he’s stopped doing it just to provoke her and instead started feeling comfortable enough to do it without thinking, to show her bits and pieces of the person he could be if he were allowed to. But he isn’t, and thus he shouldn’t let himself be, because it’ll make stripping this personality away all the more painful once he leaves. These thoughts make climbing up the stairs seem like an impossible feat, and Nathaniel feels inappropriately exhausted by the time he finally lets himself fall into bed.

His sweat-covered skin crawls with the notion that he should be at practice now and not laze about in bed, that he should remove the splint and built up the muscle in his hand instead of letting it grow weak just because of a couple broken bones, that sitting around on his ass like this is only going to lead to severe punishment, even if it’s on doctor’s orders. Nathaniel actually plays with the thought of saying _‘fuck you’_ to his exhaustion and pain and just go running in order to do _something_ , at least, to escape his head for a while, when he catches movement in the corner of his eye.

He freezes, his hands itching for a weapon although he knows that there isn’t one within arm’s reach, and Nathaniel immediately curses himself for not at least snatching a butter knife when he was down in the kitchen earlier. He isn’t sure whether he’s dozed off for a minute or an hour or not, but it doesn’t matter because there’s another person with him in the room and Nathaniel hasn’t noticed it upon entering and it sends his mind into a frenzy.

There’s a small figure outlined against the backlight from the almost full moon, sitting in front of the opened window, a glowing red cherry indicating where a cigarette dangles from their fingers. It takes a second or two until the smell registers, and Nathaniel has to try very hard to keep a straight face when forbidden memories rattle against the bars of their dungeon-cell. Smoke and fire and burning flesh—

“Andrew,” Nathaniel says once his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and it becomes clear that the intruder won’t be the first to comment on the fact that he’s intruding.

“Nathaniel,” Andrew replies and the cheerful note in his voice lets Nathaniel suspect that he’s still riding out the effects of his last dose.

He wants to know why he’s here, breaking into the team nurse’s house when he hasn’t so much as shown his face these past five days, wants to know how long he’s been here, why hasn’t he taken advantage of Nathaniel’s unawareness, but then he remembers the game they’ve been playing and realizes that Andrew probably thinks that now would be a good moment to resume that conversation, so Nathaniel doesn’t waste his questions on inconsequential matters. There are other, currently more important things to worry about.

“Kevin.” Nathaniel says and tracks the way Andrew tilts his head by the path of light the cigarette draws through the night air. “Where is he?”

There’s a smile on Andrew’s face when he takes the cigarette from his lips and blows out the smoke and Nathaniel shudders involuntarily, but that might also be because of the chilly breeze that drifts in from the open window.

“You’re a really curious little bird, Nathaniel. Never doing the expected thing. One would think you’d ask about what I’m doing here and how I came in, that maybe you’d kick me out, or at least that there would be a lot of cursing to be involved, but no, not with number four. I don’t like that, you know. I prefer predictable things.” Andrew takes another drag from his cigarette, staring Nathaniel dead in the eyes, looking for a clue or a giveaway or _something_ and when he does or doesn’t find it, he clicks his tongue. “But since you’re oh-so-clever and actually remembered our little game I’ll humor you and actually give you the answer you’re looking for. He’s at Wymack’s, either bawling his eyes out or drinking himself to a stupor, and that’s why I know it’s safe to leave him alone for a while. Cause, you know, Coach is actually a nice guy most of the time and your daddy issues really aren’t justified.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nathaniel snarls, hiding his flinch behind a mask of fury.

“I’ve been doing some research on you, Nathaniel. Wesninski isn’t such a common last name, after all, and the results were rather interesting I have to say. You look just like your daddy, has anyone ever told you that?”

Nathaniel’s skin tone grows a sickly grey, and his hand trembles where he clenches it into a fist. He hasn’t wanted to do that, has never wanted to resort to these ugly methods, but it’s not like Andrew leaves him with much of a choice. So, he stomps out his father’s hot temper his mother’s steely rebellion and instead lets the cold-hearted, calculating monster take over that he’s created and adapted for whenever he’s had to face off the Butcher’s _special_ victims or Riko’s particularly cruel torture.

His voice is utterly flat and chilly when he says, “Yes, in fact, they have. But most of them haven’t lived to say much more after that. You’re not the only one capable of research, Doe, and I’m pretty sure that yours wasn’t as thorough as mine. You know, Drake Spear has asked for you, and he said that he’d really like to see his AJ again, preferably the whole matching set even. Twins apparently always were his most treasured fantasy.”

Nathaniel doesn’t miss the way Andrew’s body completely stills, doesn’t miss how shallow his breathing becomes and the way he crushes the cigarette in his hand, heedless of the still burning embers. And Nathaniel hates himself for doing that to another person when he knows exactly what it is like, but he hasn’t seen any other way out of this predicament, and Andrew needs to realize who exactly it is that he’s talking to and who he’s taking on when he wants to confront the Moriyamas, to protect Kevin from them.

The tension in the air is tangible, the silence all-encompassing, and Nathaniel doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t try anything but to give Andrew time to process. It looks like that kind of consideration wasn’t wished-for, though, because after a few minutes, Andrew slowly opens his hand to let the cigarette-ashes float to the ground, and in the next moment, he’s on Nathaniel, his heavy breaths puffing against Nathaniel’s cheek, a knife putting pressure against his throat, legs pinning him to the bed, and it’s so familiar, _finally_ , that both men are surprised when Nathaniel’s conditioned reaction kicks in and his body goes pliant underneath unforgiving hands, already expecting and preparing for the worst of pains after he’s gone so long without.

But who is really to blame except for himself?

Everybody has always told him that his mouth is going to be the death of him and it looks like today may finally be the day this claim becomes true.

At least he’s not being killed by his father’s or Riko’s hands, at least he’s allowed to die with the taste of freedom still fresh on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted to finally get some more plot into this chapter, but it's such a nice end here, don't you think?
> 
> And I finally found some time, so I'll go and respond to your comments now, but feel free to leave me new ones! I really love reading them and it really helps me when I'm doubting myself (which is often. Like, really often. Like, every other paragraph.)   
> So, thank you, for everything.
> 
> Depending on how long the conversation with Andrew is going to draw out (I really can't control these boys), maybe in the next chapter the Foxes will finally make their appearance. (Maybe only in chapter ten, though...)
> 
> Have a nice day :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise, I absolutely don't like this chapter... again.  
> But it's been a stressful week and ... yeah. I have the impression that I'm not in the right mindset for this story lately, that everyone is getting totally ooc, and while that's good in some way, it also totally frustrates me because I constantly feel like I'm letting you guys down for not letting the characters react the way you might expect them to... 
> 
> Anyway... Sorry for being late (again), but editing/proofreading the chapters somehow always seems to take more time than actually writing, and on Tuesday (or the rest of the week) I just didn't have enough energy left to go through everything... So here's an extra-long chapter.  
> (The second half is still largely unedited, but I'll do it eventually and let you guys know if there are some major changes. I just don't want to let you hanging any longer 'cause I feel real bad about that.)
> 
> Sorry for always spamming in the chapter notes, by the way; just tell me when it's too annoying and I'll stop :)
> 
> Now... enjoy chapter nine, I hope it isn't too bad.

But seconds pass and no pain comes.

Nathaniel blinks, hasn’t even noticed that he’s closed his eyes, and he expects to stare up into a murderous face when he opens them, but there is none. He sits up, somehow surprised to find all his limbs attached, and searches the room for a threat, for something that could have possibly made Andrew back off, but, once again, there’s nothing. There’s only Andrew himself, who has resumed his position at the window with a new cigarette between his lips and a new kind of tension in his shoulders. His gaze unwaveringly lies on Nathaniel.

“That was another question each. Makes five to four. You’ve still got one to go.”

Nathaniel blinks again, his mind too numb to process this rapid, too smooth transition from ready-to-commit-murder to what-makes-you-think-I-care. Nathaniel is used to varying levels of anger and apathy, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something like that before.

No, if he couldn’t remember the dusting of freckles across a nose that’s been broken at least once before quite so clearly, he’d think he only imagined the attack—but he does remember, can still smell the tang of whiskey in Andrew’s breath, and there are lingering fingerprints visible on his forearm when he lifts his hand to run it through his hair, trying to sort out his spinning thoughts.

Nathaniel swallows harshly, then, but there’s no panic bubbling beneath his skin, no fear making his heart beat faster and his blood rush in his ears. His hands don’t tremble and there’s no tight coil of nausea sitting in his stomach; instead he just feels numb, feels bled dry and empty in a way he hasn’t since—And that’s somehow worse than the panic. He knows that if he were to look into a mirror he’d see the Butcher’s smile reflected back at him, and the look in his eyes would be as cold and dead as his mother’s.

It’s this realization that rips him out of his stupor, and he swallows again, forcing his facial muscles to relax, his distorted smile to disappear without actively clawing it off his face.

His voice is still too rough when he says, “Why did you let me stay, that first day?” just to say something, to get out of his head. It almost surprises him, that he chose to ask _that_ , but then again, he’s been wondering about it for a long time, and he hasn’t really managed to come up with a plausible explanation; not when he’s seen how protective of Kevin Andrew is (another thing Nathaniel can’t possibly make sense of), not when he knows just how much of a threat he must seem like what with the way Kevin’s mental health probably steadily declines.

If Andrew hasn’t expected this question, he doesn’t let it show—or he tries not to give it away, at least. But Nathaniel is accustomed to catching every minute expression of people who could kill him with a flick of their wrist (figuratively as well as literally speaking), he’s become an expert in interpreting the signs that would tell him whether they choose to act on that deadly ability or not, and the twitch of Andrew’s eyelid and the flexing of his fingers certainly catch Nathaniel’s attention.

“I don’t like attacking defenseless people,” Andrew eventually says and his expression smoothens out, no longer giving away anything. He idly pulls a knife out from somewhere underneath his long sleeves and begins cleaning his fingernails, and there’s an air of total indifference surrounding him while the glint in his eyes gives him away as a lurking predator only waiting for his victim to think itself safe and lose caution.

Nathaniel can’t hold back a disbelieving snort, can’t suppress the sarcasm dripping from his voice, because surely Andrew knows that Nathaniel won’t ever fall for that act. “Oh, sure, and you that’s why you decided to confront me now, because I’m totally able to defend myself.”

“Yes.” Andrew’s uninterested nonchalance begins to wear on Nathaniel’s composure yet again, begins to loosen that temper he’s so desperately trying to keep reined in.

“Alright, so you got what you wanted, you made your point and proved yourself to be the alpha male. Congratulations. Now leave. I’d like to sleep.”

“No.” Andrew finally looks up at him again, still playing with the knife in a way that tells Nathaniel more about him than Andrew probably would like him to know. The blond seems familiar with the blade, of course, but not in a way that comes natural, not in a way that speaks of much practical experience—not in the way Nathaniel is familiar with knives. No, if Nathaniel had to guess he’d say that knives are a rather recent discovery for Andrew, something he learned to use only after the fact, in a controlled environment probably, with someone he trusts. He’s not familiar with knives in the way that would allow him to inflict the maximum of pain without destroying something vital, that would allow him to tear scream after scream out of his victims’ throat, systematically flaying skin and cutting off body parts, keeping his victim alive for as long as he’d like the torture to last—Andrew probably relies more on raw force and defense strategies rather than on offense and precision and subtlety, more on quick, devastating strikes rather than drawing out the pain. Nathaniel doesn’t think that Andrew would be much of a threat to him if Nathaniel were up to par; he lacks the necessary practice and mercilessness despite the violent, uncontrollable picture Andrew tries to paint of himself. “I didn’t.”

Nathaniel blinks at the unexpected addition, and when he sees the way Andrew is looking at him, he curses himself for getting lost in his head all over again. _This is not acceptable_ , he thinks, hears it whispered and hissed and shouted in his ear and he can’t tell the voices apart anymore.

He manages to catch himself before he asks what it is that Andrew didn’t do, though, and then he reminds himself that analyzing his opponent’s skill is still better than the panicked alternative. Thus, he blankly looks back at the blond, mentally blocking out the burning smell that drifts into the room from Andrew’s cigarette, and doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, Andrew breathes out a puff of smoke. “I’m not as stupid as you’d like me to be, Wesninski. You explained at length why Riko wanted you dead, but you didn’t answer my second question, and carefully left out the reason why you’re here. It’s a clever move, I have to give you that, but you shouldn’t ever make the mistake of underestimating me.”

A wry smile curves Nathaniel’s lips, and this time, at least, it’s all his own. “Took you long enough to figure that one out. Too bad you don’t have any questions left, though.”

“Oh, Nathaniel. Are you sure you want to play it that way? But fine with me, just don’t say I didn’t warn you. How about another round?” The glint in Andrew’s eyes says that Nathaniel doesn’t exactly have a choice in that matter, as does the tight grip around the handle of his knife, but it’s not like he has ever let such a blatant challenge deter him. On the contrary, really.

“Fine. But let’s make it simple, then. Truth for a truth and no more beating around the bush.”

Andrew inclines his head, and the intensity of his stare might be unnerving if Nathaniel wasn’t who he was. “All right,” he allows. “I’ll hold you to that, though. I catch you lying to me and you won’t like the consequences, trust me.”

Nathaniel’s smile only widens at the threat, at the promise of violence that might finally help him to get his head on straight again. “I won’t ever trust someone like you, but oh well. Glad we’re on the same page, then.”

Andrew’s eyebrows draw together almost imperceptibly when he purses his lips to take a last drag of the cigarette before he tosses it out the window and gets up. Nathaniel watches him warily as he crosses the room, only to sit down on the floor opposite Nathaniel’s bed, leaning against the wall and watching him in return instead of answering, and Nathaniel can tell that by now the drugs have completely left his system; Andrew’s attention feels sharper, but with less of an edge than before.

Nathaniel draws his knees up to his chest as he, too, sits back against the headboard; the ensuing pain helps him to sharpen his focus, and he’s more relaxed than he probably should be considering everything that led up to this conversation. But it’s too hard to resist the temptation to taunt and tantalize, too hard not to try and play the game by his own rules, especially since the numbness still lingers in his bones and he’d do almost everything to get rid of it.

“So, how do you want to do this? It feels kind of like a sleepover, don’t you think? It’s so cozy here, all that’s missing is some cheesy movie and … Oh! Maybe we should braid each other’s hair too—do you know how to braid?” Nathaniel rambles, his grin too wide, his gestures exaggerated, and he can just imagine Riko’s seething and ranting and—

But Andrew doesn’t seem impressed in the slightest. His voice is utterly flat when he says, “I didn’t take you for someone to waste your questions like that, Wesninski.”

“Why do you keep calling me that? It’s annoying. But we’re not playing five questions anymore, I told you that. It’s truth for a truth, now: a different game and different rules.”

“Smartass.” It’s the same utterly flat tone, but the look in Andrew’s eyes is intense, and if the twitch of his fingers is anything to go by, he’s fighting the urge to flip Nathaniel off.

“So people have told me. I’m still right, though.”

“Whatever. But you also won’t get out of answering the question you so painstakingly try to avoid, little bird. I’m asking for the truth about why you’re really here.”

Nathaniel’s hands feel clammy, and he swallows, “Actually, I did tell—”

“What did I say about not lying to me?” Andrew interrupts, jaw snapping, eyes blazing and knife glinting in the faint trickle of moonlight. Nathaniel flinches against his will, heart racing in his throat, and he feels the panic break loose from wherever it hid before, feels it creeping up on him and waiting to make a disastrous appearance. Andrew continues before that happens, though, and Nathaniel buries everything back down in the dungeons, refusing to cower away form _Andrew_. “I know for a fact that you came into our dorm room all by yourself—nobody dropped you off there while unconscious. So how come you didn’t run while you had the chance, when you’re _oh so_ eager to leave now?”

“Oh, you’re a greedy one, aren’t you? Going right for the juiciest bits.” Nathaniel smirks and meets Andrew’s stare for a moment, but then he remembers Riko doing the exact same thing to him with that mocking expression and that belittling tone of voice, and he doesn’t quite manage to keep up his neutral expression. “But I really wasn’t lying, earlier. I was just leaving out some details—Kevin doesn’t like to know about these kind of details… Anyways. It wasn’t like that, you see, I didn’t have the chance to run, not really. I woke up to find out that Riko left me for dead—at Palmetto State of all places. I was desperate, quite frankly. The only thing I could think of was that it would be smarter to seek out Kevin instead of staying in front of the Tower where I’ve been dropped off—surely you can see why it seemed smarter than waiting to pass out and bleed to death or than risking that some random stranger found me lying there; in spite of all the reasons why I knew it _wasn’t_ smart. And, honestly, you _saw_ me. Your dorm was the best I could do—if I’d tried to run I’d have died before I even reached an apothecary or something. It hasn’t been that bad in a long time. So no, no chance to run then, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret my decision.”

Nathaniel maintains eye contact, but he doesn’t stare without blinking, doesn’t cover his mouth or vulnerable body parts, doesn’t fidget and doesn’t keep too still. In short, he deliberately doesn’t display any of the signs that would give away his lies to someone familiar with interpreting body language. Lying (either by omission of the truth or by spinning outright tales) long since has become natural to him, (in earlier days even more so than now, when he’s learned the consequences in the Nest) and it’s been a while since he’s last been so glad for this particular talent of his as he is right now under Andrew’s heavy scrutiny. And even if Andrew should realize that something was off, spotting the actual lie is made harder by the bits and pieces of truth mixed in, is made almost impossible by the fact that Andrew has already bought the lie the first time Nathaniel’s told it, so there hopefully won’t be a problem. (Plus, it’s easier to believe Riko’s temper tantrum and subsequent reasoning of let’s-dump-number-four than to think that a Raven could actually successfully escape its Nest.)

There are long, tense minutes of silence and then, “All right,” and Andrew rests against the wall again, placing the knife on the floor next to him. “Your turn.”

Nathaniel’s eyes are fixed on it while he takes his time to think about his next truth, taking into account the many things he already knows about the blond man thanks to Riko’s rigorous, jealously-fuelled investigations. There’s still something he doesn’t know, though, something he doesn’t understand and it’s been bothering him since the moment Kevin had announced his decision to sign with the Foxes as a striker.

“What is it with you and Kevin? Why did you let _him_ stay here? I don’t think he kept quiet about the Moriyamas and who they are and what they do and—I don’t get it. Why are you so hell-bent on protecting him even when knowing the consequences?”

“We have a deal and we both benefit from it, and that’s all you need to know.”

Nathaniel swallows drily, the control over his facial muscles escaping him as he reconsiders, trying and somehow failing to see Andrew (and Kevin!) in a new light. “B-but what about Thea?” he blurts out and his neck and ears and cheeks feel annoyingly hot despite himself. He _really_ shouldn’t care about things like this, shouldn’t waste a single thought.

“What the…” Andrew trails off, his expression suddenly even harder to read, and he stretches out his legs, sighing deeply in an exaggerated display of tedium. “I can’t believe that that’s where your mind went. No, Nathaniel, the deal between Kevin and I is not of sexual nature.” He sounds as if he were lecturing an annoying child and it unreasonably makes Nathaniel’s blood boil.

“Well, maybe you should think about how you word your sentences. Ever heard of the term ‘friends with benefits’? You can’t honestly blame me here.”

Andrew flicks him a bored look at the outburst and begins fiddling with his cigarette pack. “We’re not friends,” he says then, and all signs of interest in the conversation have vanished.

Nathaniel _refuses_ to let himself get riled up over nothing, unwilling to think about why this person is so infuriating when he hasn’t really felt anything in so long, so instead he says, “Why would I think that we’re friends? You tried to kill me half an hour ago. I don’t know about you, but I’m usually not friends with people who want to kill me.”

“I’m surprised that there even _are_ people who don’t want to kill you,” Andrew retorts absentmindedly and Nathaniel desperately ignores the tight pressure building in his chest when he recalls just how few of such people there actually are. There’s Abby, maybe, and sometimes Jean, although he has every right to wish Nathaniel to hell, and even his mother would probably have been happier if he hadn’t been alive, after all. So, that makes three at most, and Kevin, but he doesn’t count. No, he _left_ , and at Evermore, that’s basically the same as saying ‘I don’t care if you die’ which eventually amounts to ‘I’m gonna kill you’, in some way or another. Nathaniel once again swallows down the nausea rising in his throat, banishes the crawling panic from his bones, and focuses on what Andrew is saying. “But, no, birdbrain, I didn’t mean you and me, I was talking about Kevin. He and I aren’t friends.”

Nathaniel’s mind needs a few moments for catching up to the topic, but when it does, nothing makes any more sense than before. “What are you then? Why are you protecting him?” He can’t help the exasperation that seeps into his voice, nor the trembling in his fingers or the way he has to clench his teeth in order to stop himself from making a noise when Andrew abandons the cigarettes and instead picks up his knife again.

“I told you. We have a deal,” Andrew states, again. “That’s why.”

 _Take a deep breath, Nathaniel_ , he tells himself and pushes memories and unbidden thoughts to the back of his mind. He shouldn’t let himself be jealous of Kevin and his easy way out, not when he knows, theoretically, that it wasn’t all that easy, but he can’t help feeling resentful toward his former teammate, can’t help the bitter twist of his mouth when he thinks about how little Kevin has actually done to deserve his freedom, about how little he’s had to endure, in comparison. Sure, most people would probably still consider his life story terrifying and traumatic, would be horrified at the truth behind his ‘skiing accident’, wouldn’t ever want him to have to return to the Nest. Nathaniel isn’t most people, has entirely different ghosts haunting him and every reason to be unimpressed with the Exy prodigy, but that doesn’t change anything about the fact that Evermore is a hell on Earth, for everyone. Thus, he can’t entirely begrudge Kevin his freedom—and yet. It’s difficult to remain rational when there’s so much history between them, so much bad blood and crumbling friendship and a happier childhood, so many memories they can’t escape from.

“Alright,” Nathaniel eventually says, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I get it.”

Andrew has begun to play with his lighter in the meantime, seemingly unable to keep still, and Nathaniel briefly wonders about how bad withdrawal really is for the goalie. He looks up at Nathaniel then, though, and despite the dim lighting, Nathaniel can see that there’s a mocking grin gracing the blond’s lips. “Oh, do you? Because I totally don’t get why you’re so invested in this topic.”

“That looks like it’s your problem, not mine.”

“Then I’ll just have to make it yours, don’t I? That’ll be the next truth you’re telling me, then. What’s the deal with you and Kevin? I can’t keep up with your ever-changing attitude: one moment you detest him and the next you can’t seem to get enough of him. I can see it in the way you look at him, so don’t even try to deny your fixation. I’d tell you to see a therapist about your obsession issues, but something tells me that that isn’t what this is about. Tell me, Nathaniel, are you in love with Kevin Day?” There’s an awful smile twisting Nathaniel’s lips at those far-fetched and yet not entirely untrue accusations, and Andrew mirrors it before continuing with his taunts. “—Or is this some kind of fallback plan in case the message fails to deliver? Do you plan on dragging him back with you when nothing else works? Because that would be stupid. I thought you were cleverer than to assume I’d let that happen.” And all disinterest has disappeared from Andrew’s frame; he’s all alert attention, his fingers tightly wrapped around the hilt of his knife, as if ready to plunge it through Nathaniel’s chest the moment he so much as breathes the wrong way.

And finally, the immediate threat is enough to snap Nathaniel back into the right frame of mind. His skin tingles with the awareness of the location of every exit, his thoughts race as they supply his mind with every way he could possibly mouth off, taking action and reaction into the equation and eventually bares his teeth in an affectation of Kevin’s patented _love-me-media_ smile. “ _Beep_. That’s three times a ‘no’; too bad, you’re out. Thank you for playing with us, though, and _oh_ , also for divulging what I wanted to know all along. It’s good to know that your deal with Kevin is important enough to not let him go back, no matter what, no matter _who_. ‘Cause, you know—and that’s a truth I’m willing to give out for free—Riko isn’t finished yet, not by a long shot. He’ll probably have to lay low for a while now, after the banquet and the following disaster of my tragic death, but it won’t stop him for long. Once he realizes that the deathly message isn’t enough to make Kevin cower and come crawling back to him, he’ll only get angry and reckless and _creative_ , and I don’t want to know which methods he’ll come up with in order to change Kevin’s mind. You can only hope that he’ll be more prone to making mistakes he can’t come back from, but I won’t try to predict his actions—you see where that got me. But anyways, that will be your shit to deal with and no longer mine.”

It’s as much truth as Nathaniel’s willing to disclose, but unfortunately, Andrew is hard to fool, and especially now that he knows what to look for he won’t fall for the same elusion trick twice.

The grip on his knife loosens, but his expression is still purely predatory. “You know what I don’t get, birdie? You talk and talk and talk and yet you never really say anything. As nice as it is to know all those things, I’m getting impatient here. Get to the fucking point already. Who the fuck are you to Kevin and what do you plan?”

“I’m certainly not a single-minded bastard who can’t content himself with what he has, that’s what I am—unlike you,” Nathaniel mutters snippily, but the moment Andrew makes to get up, looking thoroughly annoyed, he lifts his hands in a mockingly appeasing gesture and scowls. “Alright, geez. I’m his… Look, the thing between Kevin and me is messy. It’s complicated and I won’t tell you all of it, but it’s enough for you to know that I honestly don’t want him to go back to Evermore. What happened to his hand isn’t the worst thing that’ll await him there, and I know that Kevin isn’t like me or Jean, he’s been Riko’s _brother_ for so long—he won’t be able to deal with it. As much as I hate him for his cowardice, he’s also been the closest thing to a friend I’ve probably ever had and I won’t let him go back. Trust me on this, if nothing else.” Nathaniel pauses and looks back at Andrew with an expression that says _‘happy now?’_ and the other man has the gall think about it for a minute, before he nods imperceptibly and waves his hand in a gesture of _‘go on’_. Nathaniel has to bite back a wave of white-hot anger, swallows down the ‘ _trou-de-cul_ ’ burning on his tongue, and he manages to keep his voice relatively level when he says, “My plan isn’t yours to worry about since it certainly won’t involve Kevin. I’ll be out of here as soon as Abby clears me, I thought I’ve made that obvious already. So you don’t have to bother about that, isn’t that great?!” Nathaniel’s forced enthusiasm doesn’t do anything to impress Andrew, and, as expected, he doesn’t fall for the pathetic attempt to steer the conversation around. It was worth a shot.

“ _Yes_ , it’s _fantastic_.” Andrew doesn’t even pretend to make an effort in playing along. “I’m still waiting for something real, though. Everyone can spew pretty words, and that doesn’t mean you actually mean them. Give me one reason why I should believe you. One reason why I should let you live and not get rid of all my problems right here and now.”

“Because you don’t want Abby’s efforts go to waste?” Yeah, no, apparently it won’t work like that anymore. Nathaniel grits his teeth at Andrew’s utterly unamused glare. “Right, you have no humor.” He sighs, his mind spinning from trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy Andrew for the moment but not reveal more than Nathaniel already did. Because he’s already said too damn much, hasn’t expected to be confronted again like this, and only now that the adrenaline slowly subsides, does he realize how stupid it was to answer Andrew _at all_ , how stupid he was for staying for so long in the first place, for even risking to do any of it.

But then again, what is the likelihood that he’ll survive this? If Andrew doesn’t kill him right here and now, his father will, and if his father doesn’t catch him, the Moriyamas will, and dying at Andrew’s hands is probably the most merciful way to go.

It’s almost astounding that he’s managed to fool himself for so long, that his refusal to think about the future has actually been enough to making the inevitability of his death seem untrue. It’s even more astounding that even his uncle seems to think that he has a chance of surviving this mess, that he won’t be caught within days and that he won’t be either dragged back to Castle Evermore or executed on the spot.

Nathaniel has always managed to scrape by by following desperate plans and not thinking about his slim plans of survival, but right now, it begins to really grate on him. He certainly is losing all hope he’s allowed himself to have the more he thinks about those inevitable outcomes (and what does it matter if he died in a minute, in an hour, in a month or in a year?), but instead of giving in and falling into this spiral of despair (and he knows its danger intimately, because he’s had to pull Jean out of this vicious cycle time and time again), his old instincts make a reappearance, he can _think_ again and all of a sudden he knows how to answer Andrews question in order to get him off his back.

“Look, I wasn’t lying. Right now, I wasn’t. If I know one thing about Kevin then it’s that he doesn’t like to think about things that concern him personally, that make him feel anything at all. That’s why he’s so obsessed with Exy, why there’s nothing more interesting than a dry history book, because history has happened long before and he can’t change anything about it and with Exy he just has to act, and as long as he acts and runs around on the court he doesn’t have to think about everything else. And when, for once, he can’t block out his thoughts like this, he searches for another way, such as drinking himself to a stupor. Which is exactly what he’s been doing these past few days, I’m sure. And he never knows when to shut up when he’s drunk, so I don’t know how much he’s told you about what goes on in the Nest… Just. While Kevin used to make himself forget about all the unpleasant aspects of belonging to Riko’s Perfect Court, I never had this possibility, for … reasons. My point is, I know Kevin. We grew up together. Spending six years with another makes you care about them in a way, no matter how much of an asshole Kevin can be. So even if he betrayed me in the worst possible ways, I can’t suddenly stop caring about what happens to him completely. Don’t get me wrong, I still think that he deserves the trouble Raven fans have been putting him through, but… he doesn’t deserve what’ll await him back at the Nest. I mean it, Andrew, but if you’re too think to understand it, that’s not my problem. Kevin’s used to being the adopted brother, a prized possession brought the Moriyamas money thanks to his contract with the National Court. Now though, that he can’t really play anymore and worse, that he defied the Master, he doesn’t have any more worth than any other of Riko’s toys. If you think his current state is bad, think again. This would absolutely break him. So no, Andrew, believe me when I say that I won’t let him go back.”

“I still don’t see what you would get out of that, other than a pain in the ass.” Nathaniel knows, realistically, that Andrew can’t _know_ , no one knows, but it hits too close to the truth and he still can’t entirely hold back the flinch, can’t stop his heart from skipping a beat as he waits for—something.

But no. Nathaniel doesn’t know what the complete non-reaction elicits in him, the way Andrew doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow at Nathaniel’s story nor at his violent reaction to Andrew’s comment.

“I…” Nathaniel clears his throat when his voice comes out scratchy, and he digs his fingernails into his palms to keep from shaking and direct his focus on the _real_ pain, not the… “I’m not an extremely selfish person, maybe I just enjoy doing the right thing.”

Nathaniel doesn’t even need to look into Andrew’s direction to know he’s giving him a ‘ _cut-the-shit_ ’ look.

“Right, I forgot.” Nathaniel sighs, unclenching his fist when he feels the warm liquid pooling in his palm. “Well. You’re probably not stupid, so you should have guessed that, well, life isn’t exactly easy at Evermore. Although that’s probably an underestimation. Anyway. You see, not everyone had it as good as Kevin, and, well, with my history I never really expected to make it all through to graduation. But I was sure that at least Kevin could survive this hell and that he’d have the world open to him, then—if Riko didn’t break him first. I never mattered to anybody, never was worth more than what my body provides, which basically amounts to blood and Exy. But Kevin… Kevin is _something_ , to someone, and I… I want at least one of us to make it. So now, that I’ve been reduced to nothing, now that I’m worthless, it seems fitting that I’d give my last to ensure that. And if that’s how Kevin reacts to me being here I think that the way to keep him from the Nest is with me being as far away from him as possible. Neither he nor I need constant reminders of the past, of the fact that Riko is still out there, waiting and scheming… Thus, what I _plan on_ is getting out of here and letting you keep Kevin save, preferably without getting myself killed in the process.” Nathaniel pauses, but Andrew’s face is as blank as ever and if it wasn’t for his eyes watching Nathaniel’s every move, he’d think the other man fell asleep. “So, if you’d _please_ put that knife away now…” Nathaniel prompts again.

“I don’t like that word. But if you know Kevin oh so well, you should see that your logic is a bit flawed here.”

“And why is that so, Mr. Know-It-All?” Nathaniel fails to put a healthy dose of sarcasm in his words as he feels his energy draining. He doesn’t think he’s ever said so much at once, and there certainly never has been so much truth in it when he wasn’t in immediate danger.

It’s a foreign feeling, to be honest with someone who isn’t either stitching him up or holding a knife against his throat, and Nathaniel can’t say he likes the way it makes him feeling emptier yet lighter at the same time, and he can’t quite determine whether it feels like a weight taken off his shoulders or rather like a chunk ripped out of his chest.

 

***

 

“You see, you’re not the only one making the mistake to care—Kevin doesn’t want you hurt either, and he seems to think that you’ll get yourself killed when he lets you run, so he wants the two of you to go back.” That was the conclusion Kevin eventually came to, guilt-ridden, when Andrew had been unwilling to budge on his decision to take another Raven-nuisance under his wing (ha ha). Before that, though, there were many hours spent on drowning himself in vodka and whiskey and tequila, and Kevin only sobered up last night, desperate and pleading, making a last attempt at persuading Andrew by giving up valuable information. Needless to say that this show of a cracking spine and disloyalty only achieved the opposite, provoking a new kind of disgust in Andrew. But, unfortunately, also a new kind of curiosity about a certain fugitive Raven that now sits in front of him with wide eyes and a paling face.

“Forget it!” said Raven exclaims right then, although his voice lacks the bite it had just a few hours ago.

“Yes. That’s what I told him too. So, you can surely see where your plan is lacking?”

When Nathaniel Wesninski just stares back at him, blinking, Andrew sighs, rubbing a hands over his face. If he’d known how much patience this conversation would demand, he’d have brought the bottle of Jack Daniels with him instead of just dulling the symptoms of withdrawal beforehand.

“Kevin feels guilty for what’s been happening at the Nest in his absence. So now he’s got this idea in his head that if he follows Riko’s call, he might appease him and get you out of trouble.” Nathaniel half-heartedly snorts at that, but Andrew ignores him and continues, inclined to get this conversation over and done with. “So what do you think is he going to do if you run off and leave him alone here? I’ll give you a hint: He probably won’t go on with his happily ever after, not wasting a second thought about what Jean might be going through because of him.”

Nathaniel gapes as understanding dawns on him, and Andrew definitely doesn’t notice the wet sheen on his parted lips, doesn’t think about the way they might feel on—Damn the way his drugs still manage to mess with his head.

“So what am I supposed to do about it? He won’t listen to reason when he gets like this.” Nathaniel says, his brows furrowed, and Andrew forces himself to fucking _concentrate_ despite the time of the night and everything the situation implies, two boys alone in a room together.

“No, he won’t. The way I see it, you’re currently the only thing currently keeping him here. You leave, he leaves. Thus, if you stay, he stays. Saving one is better than none, after all, isn’t it?”

“But, that’s not… I—I can’t stay; I’ve got to—”

“I don’t care. You just said yourself that you won’t let Kevin go back. So _do_ something about it. Otherwise I have to assume that you’re just a dirty little liar, after all.” Andrew can see the barely-suppressed flinch at that, the spiking adrenaline, can see it in the way the tired look in Nathaniel Weskinski’s eyes disappears, in the alert tension that straightens his posture on the bed.

Ooh, has he hit a sore spot somewhere? He’ll have to remember that, together with his shying away from touch and knives and snarled threats, with his daddy issues and ‘pain in the ass’ (but Andrew suspects the reason behind that flinch, and, for once, he almost hopes to be wrong).

(He also doesn’t want to think about the way the boy has gone pliant beneath his hands, the fear and resignation and anticipation in his eyes.)

(He isn’t supposed to be thinking about this, not when his own memories are just lurking beneath the surface.)

(But his face remains blank and expressionless the entire time, so that’s a plus, at least, he just has to internalize that impassibility again.)

So, Andrew forces himself to systematically store away his findings about the ex-Raven’s weaknesses, to specifically remember them so he can access them should Nathaniel Wesninski indeed prove himself to be a threat, but to not think about it any more than that. Detachedness; that has always served him best, after all, and everything else doesn’t matter as much right now. It might become a problem later, but Andrew likes to focus on the present, and at the moment, he has to convince the flighty bird not to make a run for it, because that seems like that’s what he wants to be doing right now, if his darting eyes and tensed muscles are anything to go by.

But before Andrew can say something, the expression on Nathaniel Wesninski’s face changes, morphs into something Andrew hasn’t ever expected to see again, especially not on this particular haunted, life-weary face.

There’s almost child-like wonder, something akin to mesmerized delight, written all over those features, and Andrew wonders whether he’s fallen asleep sometime during their conversation, because surely this can’t be real.

But it is, as Nathaniel proves when he gets out of bed, completely disregarding Andrew where he’s still sitting on the floor, and wanders over to the window, and, for a moment, Andrew believes that he’s been played, that Nathaniel will actually try to make a run for it and he tenses, ready to leap up and stop him, but then—

Nathaniel Wesninski laughs.

It doesn’t last long, and it isn’t particularly loud, but Andrew can’t detect any bitterness in it, or any other ugly emotion. No, it seems genuine and, for a moment, Andrew’s floored and doesn’t quite know how to deal with that.

Then, he decides that sitting here and staring at the auburn-haired boy won’t do, so he gets up and eventually realizes what it is that has the Raven so enraptured.

Soft, mellow sunlight plays with the messy strands of Nathaniel Wesninski’s hair and paints compelling shadows across the part of his face that’s visible to Andrew, making his pale skin seem aglow in a way that has nothing in common with sparkling bloodsuckers.

It takes some effort until Andrew manages to actually focus his attention on the rising sun, on the way the grey of the night makes room for soothing lavender, peach and amber colors, on the rays of light that gradually filter through the leaves of Abby’s apple tree, and he grudgingly thinks that he understands Nathaniel’s fascination.

It’s a beautific kind of thrill to realize that there’s a new day waiting, a new dawn breaking when you’re so convinced that you won’t live to see the next one, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's a mess...  
> Somehow I don't even care.  
> If you're asking yourself what the hell I'm doing here, don't worry, I don't know either.  
> Honestly, this was supposed to turn out so very differently and *more*, but... somehow I can't really focus lately, and I really hope that this will sort itself out over the holidays... especially since I have so much to do for school too... Finals are approaching... yay.  
> But I think that I'll find enough time to write, too. (even if school work gets neglected along the way; you can't have everything.)  
> Sometimes I really hate me and my procrastinating self.
> 
> Why do I always have to draw out the scenes so stupidly long? Why are my characters so OOC? Why is it so goddamn difficult to write?  
> Please tell me if you can answer any of those questions.  
> I'm slowly despairing here.  
> (But I won't quit the story, don't worry. Although the quality and frequency of the chapters might falter.)
> 
> Have a nice ... day? (It's two twenty in the morning here, and I can't sleep before I finally post this.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a thousand for all your wonderful comments. I'm reading and savoring them all and I'll finally start responding next week when I find the time...
> 
>  
> 
> (I have no idea how Americans typically make coffee and I have no idea why I wanted to put it into the chapter, but oh well. Here you go.)
> 
> So, yes, this is going to be another awkward chapter and uhm, I don't even want to start on it. So I won't say anything more and just let you enjoy.

Andrew left without another word. Soundless like a shadow, stupid people might say.

But he isn’t, actually, he’s far from it. Nathaniel now knows better than to let his guard down around Andrew, knows better than letting himself be stupid.

For only stupid people fail to hear the faint scuff of shoes, the inevitable rustle of clothes, or the way the air changes when something moves through it. Stupid people or those whose lives don’t depend on being able to tell when there’s a threat nearing, when someone stands at your back, when you’re going to get killed if you don’t _move, run, never look back_ —

But Nathaniel has forcefully reined in his instinct, has ignored the way every fiber screamed at him to turn around and get rid of the threat, and instead observed Andrew’s every move in the reflection of the window as soon as he’s noticed the other man’s presence at his back.

And while every bit of allurement drained out of Nathaniel’s being, Andrew just stood there, observing, his expression unreadable. Then, from one moment to the other, with no indication whatsoever of what was going on behind those emotionless hazel eyes, he turned around and left.

Nathaniel didn’t move. He stayed where he was and let his gaze wander from the window pane to what was actually happening beyond it, and he’s foolishly tried to re-evoke those things he felt when he’s first caught sight of the changing light and the breaking dawn. But it was impossible to think of the times when there still was something good in his life, something akin to hope, when his heart beat in his chest as if someone still was after him, his past catching up. It’s inevitable, and yet… yet he’s _hoped_ , for a moment, has let himself feel the thrill that comes with the chance to see yet another day dawning, with the determination that, while he might not live for much longer, he’d never let himself be caged again. No, Nathaniel will die in freedom and Kevin will live, will continue playing Exy, will wear orange and white and never again black and red. And his jersey will say _Palmetto State Foxes, number two, Kevin Day_ until, eventually, he’ll stand on the winners’ podium, a gold medal in hand, a grin on his face, and Riko nowhere to be seen.

It’s a fantasy, of course it is, but Nathaniel allows himself dwell on it as he stands in front of the window and soaks up that little bit of freedom while the sky slowly bleeds out its vibrant colors, as lavender turns steely grey turns celestial blue and the golden hues catch up as they, too, wash over the sky, leaving behind the brilliant light of day, the royal blue that looks as if it could swallow him up whole and never let him go, just like the sea once took away his mother’s ashes.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, aware of nothing and everything, watching and thinking and just _being_ without any thought, listening in as the world comes to life around him; the birds’ chipper chatter, dogs happily barking as their owners finally get up to walk them, engines starting when early risers leave to go to work or school, children laughing, and, eventually, Abby singing under the shower.

It’s been a strange experience, the first time he’s woken up to her voice, especially since he really couldn’t remember the last he’s heard someone singing in the original sense of the word. Music has never played an important role in his life. The long hours spent in the passenger seat of the car when his mother drove them away from danger, ending one existence and slipping on another identity always were accompanied by either silence (mostly tense, with at least one of them in pain, sometimes just _exhausted_ ), the endless droning of one newscaster after another ( _always keep yourself up to date, Abram, it’s essential to always know where to go and which places to avoid_ ), or the mind-numbing repetition of new birthdays, new names and background stories ( _for fuck’s sake,_ _it’s not that difficult to remember. You’re Chris Wilson, you’ve moved to Sacramento with your mother because…?_ ), but never once were those hours on the road accompanied by top fifty radio charts. And in the Nest, of course, nobody ever had a reason to sing, even if they’d still have leftover energy. No, it’s been disturbingly disorienting to hear the nurse belt out a song about a poker face or something (although Nathaniel kind of hoped he’d misunderstood the rest of the lyrics), and he can’t honestly say he’s gotten used to it after a few days of the same.

But now, after being caught up in this strange mood ever since Andrew left, he’s kind of glad for the distraction (even though nurse definitely had been the better career choice for Abby).

Nathaniel closes his eyes, blinking away the spots that dance behind his eyelids after watching the sunrise for so long, and he’s trying to adjust to the dimmer lighting of the room as he makes his way over to the dresser to pick out a clean shirt after spending the last twenty-four hours in this one. He hasn’t gotten a chance to change into his pyjamas, after all, because Andrew chose to confront him in the dead of night and practically upended his whole world in the process. Who did he think he was? Acting like _this_ and basically condemning everything Nathaniel has so painstakingly worked out to keep Kevin from going back to the Nest?

Nathaniel couldn’t allow himself to fall for the trap it so obviously seemed to be, to begin doubting his plans when it’s only a matter of days or even hours until Abby would finally agree to reconsider her strict no-moving rule and—no, he really needs to get his act together and his thoughts sorted out. His decision stands and he won’t let Andrew’s nonsense deter him.

Nathaniel forcefully dispels his traitorous thoughts and makes his way over to the guest bathroom across the hallway. There, he locks the door and takes off his shirt, ignoring the way his sore ribs still scream in protest at the motion. He positions himself in front of the mirror and takes a deep breath and it’ll be okay as long as he doesn’t let his eyes linger on his face.

His technical, emotionally removed evaluation shows that his wounds haven’t become infected and that he should be able to remove the stitches of the smaller cuts every day now, while the bigger and longer ones, many of which have reopened once or twice, probably take another week at least, just to be on the safe side. Nathaniel prods at the bruises that still litter large parts of his body, especially the areas around his ribs, thighs, throat and his left arm where Riko’s knee had dug in while he, diabolic grin in place, stretched Nathaniel’s fingers backwards—Riko’s very own version of Russian Roulette—until two of them eventually gave in under the pressure and Riko lost interest, searching for the next means to cause pain. Nathaniel shudders and tries to slip back into that detached state of mind by estimating for how much longer he’ll need to wear the splint, but the memories of what happened afterwards threaten to overcome him, to pull him under and he quickly pulls the new shirt over his head, hiding away his scarred body as if the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ was actually true. Unfortunately, Nathaniel’s demons are ever-present and the attempt to distract himself by counting to nineteen in every language he knows goes severely wrong—that makes ninety-five in total and that’s how many stitches he currently has, from the cut above his brow to the ones on his chest, his shoulders and back ( _Raven’s wings_ , Riko said, _so you’ll always know whom you belong to_ ) and legs ( _a slip of my knife_ , Riko taunted, _and you wouldn’t be able to ever again run away from me_ ).

Bad idea. This whole thing has been a bad idea. He should just let Abby do her job, just trust her with this one thing so he doesn’t have to—

Nathaniel splashes water in his face and rakes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the curls and to simultaneously stifle his mounting panic _._ Deep breaths, in and out, _his mother’s fingers in his hair_ , the stinging pain when his own tighten on his strands. Don’t freak out, _you’re going to get us killed_.

 

He’s still feeling kind of light-headed when he eventually steps out of the bathroom, the colors blurring into each other for the fraction of a moment before Nathaniel catches himself against the wall. He has to pause for a second or two before he trusts his legs to support him again; evidently, with his body weakened like this, the sleep deprivation kicks in already after forty hours without sleep—he doesn’t even want to know in what other ways Riko’s torture has incapacitated him.

By the time he’s back in the guest room Nathaniel has managed to pull himself together enough so that he should be able to face Abby without slipping up, without showing any more weakness. He’s done more than enough of that already.

He deposes of the dirty shirt in the laundry basket Abby has procured from somewhere (another one of those things that make him simultaneously leery and fond of her—who does things like that without any kind of ulterior motive?), then he takes a moment, just standing there, breathing, his eyes set on the morning sky and on the freshly tasted freedom, shutting away the lingering horrors, trying to forget about the atlas of awful memories drawn all over his body, and Nathaniel steels himself for whatever disquieting things the new day will bring.

 

Abby isn’t in the kitchen yet when Nathaniel eventually manages to climb down the stairs without hurting himself too much. For lack of anything better to do he begins opening all sorts of drawers and cupboard doors in order to figure out where she keeps the coffee. As soon as he spots it, though, he finds himself confronted with another problem; as much as he’d like to reciprocate for Abby’s hospitality, he doesn’t really have a clue of what to do with filter coffee.

Thankfully, the nurse arrives just then and smiles when she sees him standing there, looking around her kitchen, utterly helpless in face of the challenge to brew coffee. Nathaniel can’t help flushing crimson at being caught, gesturing awkwardly as he tries to explain that at Evermore, there were only these nice machines where you simply had to press a button, but Abby quickly takes pity on him and plucks the bag out of his hands. She’s still grinning to herself when she thanks him for trying, though, and then she asks him to prepare the fruit for breakfast instead, surely they didn’t have machines to do that for them too, right?

“Oh, and just to give you a heads-up: David’s going to come over in a few. He said something about Kevin and wanting to talk to you, so we’ll prepare some more food just in case Andrew’s lot tags along, yeah?” Abby says conversationally when the coffee’s brewing and she comes over to stand by him, kitchen knife and chopping board in hand. And Nathaniel freezes, not only because of the comment and all the complications that might imply, but also because of the sharp blade in too close proximity, because he still doesn’t completely trust this woman and _what if_ —“Nathaniel, are you alright?”—what if now the moment has come to pay for the kindness?

“I’m…” he chokes on the ‘ _fine_ ’, on yet another lie as he struggles for breath.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he then blurts and bolts, and panic is clawing its way up his throat, stealing oxygen and sanity along the way.

The door of the downstairs bathroom slams shut behind him, sounding too much like a gunshot to Nathaniel’s hyperaware ears, and then he’s dry-heaving over the pristine white sink, the innocent color burning in his eyes as if mocking him.

_Damn it_. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How can he keep his cool when confronted with the very real threat of Andrew and his obvious knowledge of knife-wielding, but freak out when the nurse—skilled with a knife, maybe, but only for healing, never for hurting—wants to chop breakfast fruit? These last few days of peace have messed with his head. He needs to get a fucking grip.

And Nathaniel struggles for it, clinging to the rope of sanity, losing his grip, clutching at it more desperately, and then he remembers, remembers the first aid kit and the surgical knife, and he rips open the door of the bathroom cabinet above the sink and then the one of the cupboard underneath it, but there’s only make-up and shampoo and toilet paper—he whirls around, catching sight of the towel rack and _there_. It’s still open and ready for use, and Nathaniel can only breathe properly again when he holds the knife in his fingers, which is a paradox in itself, but that doesn’t matter, because he’s able to defend himself again, at last. It doesn’t matter that he’s never even held a scalpel before—or maybe it does, maybe that’s the reason why he actually manages to calm down with a _knife_ in hand—but Nathaniel knows his way around any kind of blade, so it doesn’t matter that this one is smaller than the ones he’s used to, or that the balance isn’t quite right—a knife in Nathaniel’s hands is always deadly, various people have made sure that.

When the oxygen feed balances itself out and the panic attack is successfully staved off for a little longer, Nathaniel flushes the toilet and washes his hands to keep up appearances; the knife is safely tucked away in his sock where he would be able to reach it in a single motion if need be.

He’s about to turn the door knob when there are the sounds of another door opening and several people entering—three, if Nathaniel hears correctly. He freezes with his hand on the knob and listens closely. His assumption turns out to be right when three voices answer Abby’s bright hello and they belong to David Wymack, Andrew Minyard, and Kevin Day. Of fucking course. Just what he needs right now.

There’s no way around it, though. It’s either go out and get it over and done with or stay in here and wait until they leave (which is unlikely, considering Wymack wanted to talk to him), and while neither of the options particularly appeal to Nathaniel, he can at least oppose Andrew now and wouldn’t have to take any more shit from him, no more vague threats, no more getting the better of Nathaniel.

 

That train of thought dissolves, though, when Nathaniel eventually follows the noises to the kitchen where the guests have joined Abby, and he leans against the doorframe, hesitating to make his presence known just yet. For there’s Andrew, sitting on the kitchen counter and dangling his legs, a bowl of colorful cereal in his hand and a wide grin on his face. Back on the meds, then, and therefore an entirely different monster to face.

Nathaniel waits until the other man notices his gaze and looks up until he says, pointedly, “Long time no see.” The others’ conversation dies as they turn to look at his, but Nathaniel keeps staring at Andrew until he sees his grin widening and turning wicked in acknowledgement of Nathaniel’s reference to the happy pills. He averts his eyes and walks in when the vicious edge of Andrew’s smile melts away again and he enthusiastically waves a spoon at Nathaniel. Unpredictable. _Dangerous_.

“Nathaniel,” Coach Wymack greets, seemingly friendly, and despite the last conversation they’ve had, Nathaniel gives in to the urge to keep the kitchen table in between the two of them before he looks up at the older man.

“Sir,” he replies stiffly, and Andrew giggles. Abby disapprovingly shakes her head, but hands him the milk without saying anything and Andrew shuts up soon enough, busy eating the disgustingly artificial cereal.

Wymack looks as uncomfortable as Nathaniel feels. “How are you?” he asks, obviously trying to fill the silence.

“Fine.”

There’s an awkward pause in which only Andrew’s obnoxious munching can be heard, then Abby and Kevin start talking at the same time.

“I’m going to check him up after breakfast, see about removing the stitches…”—“What are you doing?”

Abby dismisses her own statement in favor of Kevin’s question, turning to look at him with wide eyes, surprised because of the harsh tone he’s used, the one he always uses when number two wants an answer and isn’t above calling number one for backup—only now, Riko isn’t here and Kevin’s new backup is currently trying to hang his spoon on his nose, every inch of his five foot nothing looking as if he couldn’t be bothered.

Nathaniel doesn’t let himself react to that, though, and instead he just looks back at Kevin, raising an eyebrow and silently asking _‘do you really want to go there?’_. Kevin looks properly angry now, his face crimson and pinched, shoulders tense and fists clenched, and Nathaniel idly wonders what could possibly have prompted the drastic change in attitude, utterly unimpressed by the whole display. For once, Kevin doesn’t seem drunk, though, and that’s strange enough that Nathaniel decides to entertain him for a while.

“What _the fuck_ are you trying to achieve?”

“Kevin,” Abby interjects, tentatively, “What are you talking about?”

Kevin ignores her, his burning stare still on Nathaniel. His next words come out in rapid French, and there’s the anger in his eyes slowly makes space for insecurity. “ _What kind of mind games are you trying to play with me?_ _Acting all innocent and not trying to contact me_ at all _—Why would you… What the fuck—do you want me to come crawling back to you voluntarily? Really? Do you really expect I’d fall for that and come back with you_?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Kevin?” Nathaniel asks, his voice as frozen as his insides feel, but he doesn’t bother switching languages as well; he senses Andrew’s keen attention on him and that’s enough of a warning.

“ _Don’t think I didn’t see through your act. Why would you be here, like this, if not to take me back? I’m not entirely stupid, no matter what… I just don’t_ understand _—why? How? It doesn’t make sense because you_ wouldn’t _do this to me, would you? But then why didn’t you try to come talk to me when there was a chance and—what about Jean? What happened, Nathaniel? Why wouldn’t you tell me what happened?_ ” Before Nathaniel can answer, before he can even listen beyond the desperation evident in Kevin’s voice and try to decipher the jumbled mess of mauled French, Kevin has taken a deep breath and continued, “ _Is it because of me? Because I left and you … you had to suffer for me, because of me? Is that why you hate me now? Because—that I’d understand, Nathaniel, I’d understand if you hate me now and in that case I’ll try to make it up to you, I’ll come back with you, and maybe he’ll maybe he’ll be pacified enough and_ —”

“Shut the fuck up!” Nathaniel snarls, and his insides have thawed, have been consumed by fiery-hot anger and fear and fury and if Kevin doesn’t _stow it_ right about now—

Kevin shuts up.

There’s no trace left of whatever spark of authority he’s held at the beginning of his spiel and he’s back to being a cowering coward, back to willing to do just about everything in order to appease Riko, to flee the consequences of his actions by taking every possible measure, no matter who might get hurt in the process.

“I’ll ask again: What the fuck are you talking about?” There’s no trace of the conflagration perceptible on the surface, Nathaniel makes sure of that by keeping his voice utterly flat and his body still, yet Andrew’s growing grin threatens to split his face in two.

“I told you,” he singsongs, and delightedly dangles his legs, leaning forwards as if wanting to be closer to the action. The movement causes the spoon to fall from his nose and it takes all of Nathaniel’s self-restraint to hide his flinch when it noisily falls to the ground.

Nathaniel doesn’t know why she does it, but he finds himself incredibly grateful when Abby tugs her employer slash boyfriend slash whatever out of the kitchen, muttering something about the lawn mower not properly working, if he could take a look at it…

“Kevin, you fucking asshole, listen here,” Nathaniel says, and then decides to not give a shit about what Andrew thinks and tries to get through to Kevin by using his mother tongue. “ _Neither do I plan to take you back to the Nest because Riko told me so, nor will_ I _go back. You stay right where you are. Jean and I can take care of ourselves—we wouldn’t have risked this if we wouldn’t have been aware of the consequences. So don’t even fucking_ think _about doing something that would lead to all of this having been in vain_.”

“ _But I—I wasn’t in my right mind then; I wouldn’t ever have let this happen if… And what are you going to do if not go back before Riko—you’re going to get yourself killed before the month is over if you think about running. Just remember what happened the last time when_ —”

“Don’t go there, Kevin. I’m warning you.” This really isn’t the time to be thinking about this. Nathaniel stows away the memories, refusing to let the panic grow roots, and he ignores the fact that his dungeons soon are going to burst because of all the things he doesn’t want to think about. “I told you, I’ll figure it out. I just … need a little more time, and I believe your Coach wanted to talk to me about something—why are you even here, by the way?”

It doesn’t take more than this question for Kevin’s entire demeanor to change again. Suddenly, he seems more focused and there’s a light in his eyes that has been dulled before, his pale face regains a bit of color as if he’d remembered something good, as if he _hoped_. “I don’t know what he wanted, but we tagged along because Andrew— _he was high when he got back this morning and I don’t know what he’s been doing all night, but he seems to think that if I don’t want you to go back and don’t want you to run, then you should just stay here and join the Foxes. I—he won’t protect you, but you could build up a public image, make them love you, so the Moriyamas have a harder time to get to you and_ —”

Nathaniel snorts. “You’re ridiculous, Day. One, you don’t need another backliner. Two, nobody could possibly _love_ me. Three, why the fuck would I ever want to join your pathetic Foxes? No, thank you, I’d rather die.” The irony of that statement doesn’t go unnoticed, of course, but no one choses to address it; even Andrew only chuckles to himself and forgoes to make a comment.

“But… at least you could play Exy.”

There’s a twinge in Nathaniel’s chest at that. All the time he’s been here, he’s managed to dance around that word, to not think about the real meaning behind it, to treat ‘Exy’ as anything other than a meaningless job for certain people. All the time, he has avoided the word with all his might because he can’t let himself linger on it, can’t let himself long for it; because it’s the only thing he’s good at, the only thing that makes even remotely sense—and he’s been prepared to run, to sever any and all ties to this life, and it’s a fact that his entire life basically revolved around Exy, so he _knows_ that he wouldn’t survive for long if he let himself yearn for it. Nathaniel has allowed Exy to distract him in the past and he won’t make that mistake again. No, he won’t ever so much as touch an Exy racquet again, and he definitely can’t risk thinking too hard about Kevin’s irrational proposal.

Nathaniel’s strongest defense mechanism kicks in. “Ah yes, the Great Kevin Day and his famous one-track mind. Did you ever hear of the phenomenon that Exy isn’t actually the center-of-all for everyone?” Mockery is always better than admitting to a vulnerable truth. Protect the core and sacrifice the less damageable parts, the shell people won’t be able turn against you—that’s Nathaniel’s way of being honest.

Andrew seems to agree and he grins, hopping down from the counter to put his bowl into the sink. “Birdie has a point here, Kevin, and you’d do well to finally keep that in mind.” He wiggles his spoon in Kevin’s face before he throws it after the bowl, and in silence following the loud clatter that made both Nathaniel and Kevin cringe, they hear a door open somewhere in the back of the house.

“—don’t know what you were talking about. The beast works perfectly fine as always,” Wymack’s voice filters in. “Except—did you do that just to bully me into mowing your lawn again? Aren’t you the one always convincing me to make an effort to defy gender roles? If _I_ have to cook you can just as well mow your own—” He cuts himself off when he notices the three men more or less gawking at him, then he snaps, “What the hell are you looking at, maggots?”

Nathaniel winces, Andrew laughs and Kevin just keeps staring.

“Yeah, right…” Wymack says, eyeing the latter. “What did you do to him?” Now he doesn’t seem to know whom to address; Andrew or Nathaniel.

“Oh, don’t worry, he did that all by himself. Too much thinking doesn’t become him good, you see. He’s a poor little boy. And we shall leave now, yeah? Bye bye, see you soon.” With that, Andrew snatches Kevin’s sleeve, waves at everyone, and a moment later they’re gone. Nathaniel doesn’t look at his former teammate, not when he doesn’t know what he’d see in those green eyes if he dared to meet them.

“Alright, then. I don’t like it one bit, but I’ll have to take him by his word, then.” Wymack grumbles, then his gaze finds Nathaniel’s, and he grumbles some more, rubbing his temple with a weary sigh. Abby just taps him on the upper arm with an encouraging smile and then proceeds to push him out of the way so she can get back to her fruits. Wymack snorts, shaking his head fondly and pulls out a chair from the kitchen table, gesturing for Nathaniel to do the same when he doesn’t immediately move.

Not quite trusting all this and yet finding himself with not much of a choice, Nathaniel complies, gingerly sitting down and taking care to keeps out of Wymack’s arm’s reach at all times.

“You’re a piece of work, kid,” Wymack observes, apparently out of the blue. “But I’ve got some good and some bad news for you. I’m not sure which ones you’d see as good and which as bad, though, so I’m not even going to ask which ones you want to hear first.” He pauses when Abby places a bowl of Bircher muesli with the freshly cut fruit on top in front of him and takes a moment to scowl down at the healthy meal, before he surrenders himself to it, neatly avoiding Abby’s wrath.

Nathaniel forces himself to work up his most grateful smile for the nurse when he notices that his own bowl lacks the blueberries (like it did ever since he’s told her that he isn’t particularly fond of them), and he endures her hand on his arm when they both notice that his heart isn’t really in it.

Wymack only continues talking when Abby’s joined them with her own Bircher muesli. “So, firstly you should know that nobody at Evermore even mentioned your absence. There’s no public statement, no note regarding a change of their line up, nothing.”

“Well, that was to be expected,” Nathaniel says before Wymack can go on. “Nobody knew of my existence in the six years I’ve actually been there, so why should they suddenly announce my death?” Abby looks vaguely alarmed at the mention of how long he’s been at the Nest, but Nathaniel steadily ignores her. “The Moriyamas like to take care of their problems quietly and cleanly. Any public statement or so would only arise unnecessary questions to which they won’t have a good answer; it’s easier to just sweep it—me—under the rug. And it’s not like there’s someone out there who would actually care what happens to me, so there’s no fallout on that side to deal with either. The only one who might have a problem with me being gone is Riko, but that’s his own fault and another matter altogether. So, sorry to disappoint, but that’s no news at all to me.” Well, that’s not quite true; while it might not be news, it still stings to have those suspicions proven correct and it leaves him morbidly hurt. Nathaniel had known he didn’t really mean anything to the Moriyamas, that he was just a number and property whose worth was defined by how much money it brought in (none, in his case), but still. The fact that they’d dismiss his entire existence so easily and quietly… it stings, especially compared to the fuss they’ve been making around all things Kevin.

“Well then,” Wymack blinks stupidly before he manages to recover himself. “That’s, uh… In that case… The other news will probably actually surprise you, then. You see, Kevin isn’t very subtle or inconspicuous; he just doesn’t know how to keep a low profile when there’s something bothering him. Especially not when he’s drinking himself into oblivion every night and then takes it out on everyone during practice. So, the others have caught on the fact that there’s been something going on these last few days and understandably, they want to know what. I promised them I’d tell them today.”

Nathaniel still doesn’t see what about that should be good or bad news to him—if he’d had any reason to think about the rest of the Foxes he could have figured out that one by himself. “And…?”

“Look, we don’t know how long you’ll be staying here, right? Kevin couldn’t tell me much on that matter, but… we all know what _really_ happened when he broke his hand and from what little we know about the things going on in the Nest and the things the main family gets up to, the Moriyamas are not to be underestimated. We let Kevin stay on the condition that everyone was on board with it, that we all knew the risks and were willing to take them. Now, I know that your situation is different, that it doesn’t yet concern the whole team, but from what I discern, that can change very quickly. So, my Foxes have the right to know about you and that there _is_ a situation in the first place, that there’s another Raven at Palmetto and there could be consequences… Hence, I thought that you should tag along today, meet them, introduce yourself, and, you know, Kevin also told me about his idea to have you join the Foxes, and, well…” Wymack trails off when he notices Nathaniel’s bewildered stare and he sets down his spoon. “What?”

“You want me to what?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, well.  
> Still no Foxes, I'm sorry.   
> But next chapter. Oooh, next chapter is going to be a wild ride. I'm already really looking forward to it :D
> 
> Plus, now, finally, pretty much everything has been addressed and introduced, I think (or at least it will be after the next chapter) so we can get the party started ;D 
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying the story :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8.389 words of my usual rambling writing; painful memories and chaos and finally the mess that is the Foxes.  
> Welcome, Nathaniel.  
> (Or not.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is like a million years late. I think I owe you a very long, very detailed apology about my unexpected absence here. I don't really have a good excuse. I'm the most horrible procrastinator you can find out there and I was just really, really afraid of posting this chapter, in so many ways.  
> It's been... hard work, you wouldn't believe how many times I've written and rewritten this, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I can't leave you hanging any longer.  
> I'm currently sick and getting up every morning at five am because it's finals week and I'm writing 4 hour long exams every morning and I kind of need to do something good because I haven't really been studying as much as I probably should have and now I'm trying to relieve my guilt by posting this (tomorrow's the last one though, so then I have two weeks until oral exams come back to torture me.) So here's the warning that the next chapter might only come after the first of July, but maybe I'll also procrastinating that load of studying by writing this. We'll see.
> 
> Anyway. I started to see that trigger warnings might actually be quite important to some people (although I don't think you survive long in this fandom if you're too sensitive), so I'll try to list everything that might be triggering.  
> I know that I won't be able to catch anything, though, so if you've any worries or see something I forgot to mention, please tell me!  
> In this chapter, TW are for: a lot of foul language, remembered trauma (it's Nathaniel, what do you expect?), implied gore and torture (both as recipient and "executer"? Don't quite find the word, but you get the gist), implied homophobia and general nastiness. 
> 
> So. Enjoy.  
> (I'm sorry.)

Putting up a fight had been useless. Especially since Abby soon supported Wymack’s idea of having Nathaniel get to know the Foxes because “ _You’ve been holed up here for a week, a bit of fresh air and human interaction would be good for you_.”

Nathaniel has learned early on that arguing with Abby about health affairs is a bad idea, and since, apparently, getting to know people of his age would greatly influence his healing process he didn’t even bother trying to come up with counter-arguments (though Nathaniel is pretty sure Abby has made up her own argument on the spot—having peers had never done him any good in the Nest, after all, and Nathaniel could imagine too many scenarios that would work against every recovery his injuries have made, but he wasn’t about to mention that out loud.) and just gave in.

At least there’s one good thing about tagging along with Wymack, Nathaniel reasons, and that is that nobody has said anything about what happens after that meeting, so he should be free to go, or at least manage to sneak away for an hour or so while the Foxes practice. He still has those coordinates memorized, after all, and Nathaniel always feels more comfortable when his next way out is immediately accessible, when he can avoid having to waste precious hours chasing after a new identity and ‘legal’ documents; he’s less prone to making grave mistakes when he’s able to focus all his time and energy on running instead, and on making sure that no one is following him.

Thus, Nathaniel resigns himself to his fate, and he stops surlily picking at his Bircher muesli when he feels Abby’s disapproving gaze on him, obediently eating it spoonful after spoonful instead. No matter his mood, Nathaniel isn’t one to waste his food, after all; who knows when he’ll get the next meal?

So it’s twenty minutes later, when the dashboard clock indicates 08:10, that Nathaniel finds himself dressed in some of his new clothes sitting in the passenger seat of David Vincent Wymack’s car (and he hates that he has to remind himself of that fact over and over again, hates that he never manages to shake his father’s presence, even though he _knows_ that it’s the Palmetto State Foxes’ Coach, nobody else, it’s just Wymack and he won’t try to hurt him). He tries to relax, to mentally prepare himself for the imminent meeting, but he can’t quite imagine it going any other way than disastrous and also, he still doesn’t trust Wymack not to change his mind after all, not to give in to the violent streak that seems to overcome most people when in Nathaniel’s presence, so he distracts himself with mundane things, pressed against the door as far as the seatbelt allows, head turned towards the window as if the scenery outside is fascinating enough to demand all of his concentration (and they both don’t mention how he can’t fool either the Coach or himself).

 

He only manages to focus on anything but the middle aged man right next to him when there’s a building coming up on the horizon that towers over the shorter utility buildings nearby. Here, on the outskirts of campus and obviously built to seat sixty-five thousand fans, the Foxhole Court actually makes for a rather impressive appearance, but even if Nathaniel would manage to overlook the horrific eye-sore of a paint job, he knows perfectly well just how deceiving appearances can be. The Foxes can try to change their image as much as they like, in the long run it wouldn’t get them anywhere; Nathaniel is intimately familiar with Riko, with how little effort it’ll take him to destroy everything they’re trying to build and how easily the man will be able to crush the Foxes once he transfers districts.

There’s an ache sitting deep in Nathaniel’s chest as the car turns into the parking lot of the … blindingly white and obnoxiously bright orange building, and Nathaniel focuses on the number of cars already here (three) instead of allowing himself to think about what kind of building these colors adorn and what it might look like on the inside, because he knows that that’ll only make the ache spread and cling to his bones with claws of vicious grief until he can’t think about anything else, until that monster sitting in his heart won’t let itself be contained anymore, and then…

(But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows exactly what it looks like on the inside; Riko has made sure of that. Hours of watching every single game of the Foxes, even from the time when Kevin hasn’t quite yet been part of the team, hours of poring over Palmetto’s stadium blueprints that Riko has bribed off the architect (extra homework for his Perfect Court) until they knew every nook and cranny by heart have made sure of that. Nathaniel never bothered to question these things; it calmed Riko down for a while and that was worth the stiff neck and sore eyes, even the additional tiredness during practice. Plus, Nathaniel found a certain assurance in knowing where Kevin was and how to get to him if necessary, although that most likely wasn’t why Riko wanted all this knowledge.)

Once he gave in to the temptation it would be hard to snap out of it again, hard ignore the longing that has an almost physical grip on his heart, on his muscles and skin that remember all too well—

So Nathaniel tries to do damage control instead, forbids himself to picture the tall plexiglass walls of the inner court, to imagine the hardwood floor under his feet, to taste the sweat and exertion and triumph, he tries to ban the mental image of all the available gear and racquets and balls inside, of the goals just waiting to light up red when a ball rebounds off the wall with that satisfying thud and—

That’s the driver’s door slamming shut.

Snapping out of it, Nathaniel hastily forces his mind to go blank, to _actually_ get rid of all those stupid ideas. They’re not only stupid in general, but it’s also stupidly dangerous to let himself wish for things he can’t have, he knows that, and he _knows_ that he can’t let his damned attachment to Exy control his life and his decisions. One slip-up had been bad enough back then and it’s been such a close call that he doesn’t think he’d actually survive it a second time.

It still hurts to climb out of the car, Nathaniel notes absentmindedly when his thoughts are back under control, but he doesn’t pause, ignores the twinge shooting up his backside, the sharp pain exploding in his his bad fist when he instinctively clenches it. Injuries as old as this aren’t allowed to hurt that much, though; Nathaniel has learned that lesson very early in life and he won’t forget about it _now_ , not when he’s about to be confronted with people who have every right to be angry with him when others have taken advantage of his weaknesses for far lesser reasons. No, for the meeting with the Foxes Nathaniel can’t allow himself to keep these tiny bits of Abram, whom his mother seemed to have believed in, who has begun to resurface while in Abby’s care—Abram is the child untouched by violence, the one who’s made up of almost entirely good memories, of playing cards with his mother, watching the Teletubbies with his childhood neighbor, of the laughter of three boys playing Exy with no worries about the future, of Jean’s stories about his family in France, whispered in the quiet of the night when everything else hurt too much to think about—Abram isn’t anyone who could possibly withstand what the Foxes might have in check for him, a bunch of misfits trying to fight for their place in the world. So Abram gets buried in the deepest parts of Nathaniel’s mind, and the vanishing positive memories make space for everything else there is, for the true Wesninski heir, the Junior his father always waited for, and Nathaniel straightens his back despite the scorching throb that races through his entire body at the careless movement, his expression carefully blank even as he curses his stupidity for becoming so dependent on Abigail’s pain medication.

But the pain doesn’t matter, fear is an unknown emotion, and as long as all his limbs are attached, he can bring death in a matter of seconds—or draw it out until his victims give up their darkest secrets within the hour, and only once they spilled their guts (sometimes very much literally) would he actually follow up on their pleas and kill them. As for his own secrets… Junior doesn’t have any secrets, because Junior is entirely his father’s son and not even Riko’s threats can faze him when he’s reached that frame of mind—but _Junior_ always leaves him feeling unbearably numb for days afterwards and Riko’s always angrier when Nathaniel doesn’t react, is always more inclined to seriously hurt him when Nathaniel doesn’t bother with putting up his usual resistance, when he faces Riko’s torture with indifference instead of flinching and smart-mouthed, and it’s always so much more dangerous when he just doesn’t _feel_ the pain. That doesn’t matter right now, though, because Riko isn’t _here_ and while the threat that the Foxes pose is an unknown, it can’t be worse than anything else he’s faced until now, otherwise Kevin would’ve been long gone.

Wymack is waiting for him when Nathaniel eventually catches up with him, expression undecipherable while he holds the door open, but his eyes follow Nathaniel’s every move, as if unwilling to lose sight of him for whatever reason. Resentment, quickly followed by a spark of gratefulness and bitterness are the last _feelings_ that pulse through Nathaniel’s veins before he forcibly shuts out that emotional part of his being.

Now, his skin doesn’t itch when he passes the Coach and walks ahead, following a short hallway that ends at a door marked FOXES. The color seems even more hideous here, alien in a place that should be ruled by black and red, (by pain and fear), but Nathaniel doesn’t allow himself to stop short when the thought crosses his mind. He also doesn’t hesitate when he sees that the door is left ajar for some stupid reason, doesn’t recall how even a lock or a passcode hasn’t ever stopped Riko or anyone else with intentions that go beyond mere vandalism, doesn’t wonder why the team doesn’t make use of the perfectly fine lock on the door, which would at least slow people down; what lies behind this door is the _heart_ of the Foxhole Court, after all, and—Nathaniel _doesn’t_ _think about it_.

David Vincent Wymack stops short just in front of the door and turns to face him; a middle aged man towering over him, and Nathaniel doesn’t flinch. Apparently, the Coach still notices something off in his expression, though, because he falters when he catches sight of Nathaniel, and his mouth hangs open for a moment before he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Could’ve mistaken you for Andrew for a moment there,_ ” he mutters, lowly enough for Nathaniel to realize that he probably wasn’t supposed to hear that, but he takes a mental note of it and files the comment away, together with the fact that catching Wymack off guard means throwing him off balance; his foothold slips a bit, which puts strain on the hip that seems to trouble him so that he’s in a position from where Nathaniel wouldn’t have to put in much effort in order to get the man to the ground and a knife to his throat. It’s clean, effective, and the finding isn’t anything but analytical; Junior at work.

Finally, Wymack looks back at Nathaniel, although his mouth stays slightly pinched. “Right. So I’ll go in first and explain the situation, mellow them out a bit before barging in with a Raven hot on my trail, alright? That’s probably the smartest plan of action, right now, especially after all the shit that’s been going down because of your loyal little fans. Wait outside until I call you, yeah?”

Nathaniel nods and resists making a comment since he knows perfectly well how _that_ would end up, and instead he absently wonders whether Abby actually is the only remotely sane person on this team.

He watches blankly as Wymack nods back just as curtly, probably deciding as well to just get this over with, and, with a flourish, he tears open the door and barges in despite his words, accompanied by a loud “Listen up, assholes” instead of the knock other people would use to announce their presence.

(She probably is.)

The room actually quietens for a moment, only to erupt with noise again a second later, and it’s either continued chatter (“I’m not sure whether they’re just wild for the taste or if maybe eating brain does something else for them.”), thrown about questions (“Is now the time we finally find out what’s had Kevin’s panties in a twist?” – “Where is he?” – “What’s up, Coach?”) or just outright complaints (“Is this really necessary? Why can’t we just move on? It’s not like—” – “Oh, shut up, Aaron.”).

Nathaniel idly wonders why he’s even excepted that the Coach would have a semblance of control over this ragtag team.

A moment passes and, from what Nathaniel can discern, Wymack doesn’t do anything to try and regain the attention of his team, which is just … unacceptable. Already, Nathaniel’s patience begins to fray—no Wesninski ever likes to be kept waiting, no matter the reasons. He’s tired of this already, his leg aches dully, a constant nagging in the back of his mind, not quite noteworthy but also not easily ignored. He just wants to get this over with so he can get on with the first steps of his plan and curses himself for letting Abby make him become soft, for ever agreeing to and going through with this.

There’s another moment of acoustical chaos, and, well, at least he followed the first half of Wymack’s order for a while, meaning the punishment won’t be too harsh when it comes to it, so Nathaniel pushes open the door, coming in behind Wymack.

He has to clear his throat before anyone notices him, and then, the Coach immediately whirls around to him, looking just as fed up as Nathaniel and snarls “Why does nobody fucking listen to me? I thought I said ‘wait outside’ loudly and clearly!”

“You did,” Nathaniel confirms, steadily meeting the man’s eyes. “Doesn’t mean I give a fuck.”

After a quick overview of the room—it is the lounge, and the only unexpected things in here are the photos adorning the walls and the hideous pattern of the couches—Nathaniel’s eyes zero in on Kevin. He’s seen him wince at Wymack’s angry reprimand, and now that Nathaniel doesn’t react to it the way Kevin has clearly expected him to, his eyes go wide and his face takes on an ashen color while Andrew laughs, humming a tune under his breath that Nathaniel doesn’t recognize but that snags Kevin’s attention away. Nathaniel clenches his teeth and drags his stare away from his former teammate, deciding to survey the others instead, assessing them and trying to pin down who has said what.

Aaron, sitting to Kevin’s right while Andrew sits on his left (always on his left, protecting his weak side), seems about ready to move on: his attention is focused on the phone in his one hand while he uses the other to shove away his cousin’s face who’s crowding Aaron’s personal space, presumably in an attempt to read the blond’s text messages. But Nicholas Esteban Hemmick, number eight backliner, looks pretty intent on finding out every secret his cousin might keep from him—at least until there’s a sudden silence and he looks up to shoot a brief smile at his Coach, but his eyes land on Nathaniel instead. Then he gapes and a stream of incomprehensible Spanish falls from his lips; the few words Nathaniel does pick up on make him feel almost grateful that he hasn’t studied the language all that properly yet.

Threat dismissed, Nathaniel looks over at backliner Matthew Donovan Boyd and offensive dealer Danielle Leigh Wilds and wonders what makes her special enough to be the first and only female Class I captain. She sits so close to her boyfriend she might as well sit on him and her brown eyes flash when she redirects the glare that’s been directed at Aaron to the person who dares to mouth off to her idolized Coach, although her face does something strange when she takes in who that offending person actually is. Nathaniel keeps his expression impassive even as Wilds and Boyd exchange a disbelieving glance; as, when the backliner opens his mouth, someone else cuts in.

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” Allison Jamaica Reynolds, defensive dealer and Barbie doll extraordinaire, asks scathingly and Nathaniel only raises an eyebrow when he notices that she actually _is_ sitting on Bryan Seth Gordon’s lap. The striker sneers when he notices Nathaniel’s gaze, but he doesn’t do anything except for tightening his hold around his girlfriend’s waist, as if Nathaniel were a threat to _that_ of all things.

“You know each other?” the Coach crosses his arms and furrows his brows, looking entirely displeased with how this meeting is playing out at the moment.

“Yes. He’s the one we told you about. You know, from the banquet.” That’s Renee Walker—or Natalie Shields, depending on who you’re asking—and her voice sounds so pleasant it actually sends a shiver down Nathaniel’s spine. _That’s_ the sort of kindness to look out for; the dangerous edge hidden in her dark brown eyes that she tries to conceal with good Christian clothing, a cross around her neck and rainbow-colored hair. Nathaniel doesn’t know how many people she manages to fool, but he definitely is not one of then, no matter how bright and welcoming the smile she directs his way. She has absolutely no reason to look so friendly, especially considering what went down the first and last time they’ve met each other. The glares he receives from the other upperclassmen are much more justified.

Wymack’s fists clench at the new information, and the look he turns on Nathaniel suddenly grows calculating and a lot more distrusting than it was just minutes before. It’s not like anyone could really blame him. “That was you?” he asks, and when Nathaniel nods, his mouth sets in a hard line, his posture becomes stiff, distant.

“Well then. And why the hell has nobody thought that informing me of that fact might be a good idea?” This question is directed at Kevin and the twins, and while Kevin has the grace to look away from the accusing glare, biting his lips as the color rises back into his cheeks, Andrew just grins and Aaron mutters rudely “Why would we?”.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hemmick interrupts just in time to stop Wymack from punching a hole through the wall. “You knew about this? About him? _Ihr habt die ganze Zeit Bescheid gewusst und mir nichts gesagt?_ ”

“ _Well, yes. Why should we have told you?_ ” Aaron answers in German, for once ignoring his phone when it chimes. “ _It’s not like you would have been much help now, would it? The only thing you’d have done is drooling over him from afar and waiting for the moment you can take proper action and jump his bones—and really, even I’m not cruel enough to make him suffer through that, you sick fuck. When will you finally see just how disturbing that is?_ ”

The words shake him to the core, suffocate him from within. No matter how much he tries to internalize being his father’s son who’s never been confronted with this special form of torture practiced in the Nest, nothing could have prevented Nathaniel from stiffening at that scathing remark, from the chill that seeps into the marrow of his bones and freezes him all over, heart stuttering as his gaze flickers back to Hemmick, immediately reassessing the threat. The dark hair and height match, Nathaniel notices and he has to swallow down the lump rising in his throat in order to stay present, has to focus on breathing regularly, especially when Hemmick speaks up again.

“ _Alright, let’s ignore the fact that I’m your fucking family and I’d like to think that I deserve to know about such important things because they affect all of us—can you really blame me? He’s_ gorgeous _, even underneath-”_ he waves a hand about _,_ indicating Nathaniel’s bandages and loose clothes, probably, _“-all that_.” and there’s no mistaking the obvious leer he directs Nathaniel’s way.

The lump in his throat seems to grow, transform, and Nathaniel _chokes_ —

“Nicky,” Andrew says, his voice almost as pleasant as Walker’s even as he stage-whispers in German. “ _Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to touch him_.” He doesn’t look at his cousin though; his gaze is entirely fixed on Nathaniel, and either he has followed Kevin’s terrified stare or he’s noticed Nathaniel’s body language, which probably tells all kinds of stories about dark, cold stone floors or about running away with the last of one’s strength, but never giving in, never giving up quite all the way.

Hemmick shuts up, and, along with everyone else, looks from Andrew to Nathaniel and back, and when Reynolds asks “Why the fuck aren’t you going all feral guard dog on him after—” Andrew interrupts with “ _Es ist nicht höflich, private Unterhaltungen zu belauschen_.”, never once taking his eyes off Nathaniel. They gleam with a different kind of intent now, the manic edge somewhat dulled for the moment.

Reynolds trails off, Hemmick gasps and even Aaron looks up from his phone, squinting at Nathaniel as if the ability to speak German was a visible trait and he could tell by looking for it whether or not Nathaniel had really been eavesdropping.

“ _It’s not really a private conversation when there are other people present, isn’t it? And, by the way, didn’t your mother teach you that talking in foreign languages when not everyone can understand them is also not polite?_ ” Nathaniel replies in German, well aware that subtle allusions will hurt the most, but still, his stomach squirms uneasily at having been found out so early in the game—especially when other memories make use of the temporary breach in his mental barrier and his own stupid remark about the mother he’ll never really have; flashes from the last time he’s spoken German, (a smile and fire, blood and smoke), from the moment the realization sunk it that he’d never _actually_ be using it because they were caught off guard and—

“I’m _so_ glad you’re finally getting the chance to have a nice chat,” Wymack says pleasantly before one of the cousins has the chance to react. “If I’d known that I’d have brought the tea set with me to make the gossip circle complete. And I could have invited Chuck over, and explain to him why there’s no Exy team at Palmetto anymore.” From one instant to the next his voice grows hot, angry. “But that’s not why we’re here today, for fuck’s sake! I thought you were mature enough to understand the gravity of the situation. My mistake for forgetting that I’m working with fucking children here.”

Hemmick goes from gaping at Nathaniel to gaping at the Coach until he remembers how to close his mouth. Andrew laughs at him, elbowing Kevin in the side, whose pained expression speaks volumes, then Gordon says “Then tell us why we’re here, Coach. Because I’m fucking concerned about what the fuck _he’s_ doing here,” and the venom might as well be physically dripping from his voice.

“ _God_.” Wymack lets his head drop into his hands, groaning tiredly. “ _Alright_. Rip off the band-aid and all that, huh? So. You were the ones who wanted to know what’s got Kevin’s panties in a twist, you don’t get to be disappointed by the answer.” He grimaces and points at Nathaniel with a sweeping gesture, no further comment.

“That’s it? Just… him?” Boyd asks, incredulously. “No break-in, no threatening phone calls, rabid press or vandalism—not even a police raid? Kevin’s been freaking out and drinking non-stop because of a suprise visit of Jean’s _sweetheart_?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Nathaniel asks tonelessly, and once more he’s left wondering about the extent of the stupidity of these people while Hemmick’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “Hold on—Jean’s _what_?”

“His sweetheart,” Boyd repeats, his gesture exasperated, but there’s a certain quirk to his lips when he wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully. Kevin chokes on air somewhere in the background, but Nathaniel doesn’t bother to glance at him, sure that Andrew won’t let him die anyway.

Hemmick gasps, dramatically clutching at his heart. “No way! Wait. Why didn’t I ever get informed of this—please tell me you didn’t have any bets on this. I can’t have missed _that_ much—”

“I don’t know, you do seem kind of slow-witted to me,” Nathaniel says, and then the rest of his brain catches up with his mouth, and _fuck_ , he really never knew how to pick his fights, but he’s been doing such a good job of keeping his antagonism in check (but it doesn’t really matter what name he listens to, does it, because his mouth always gets him in trouble—at least that’s what Riko used to tell him, and whenever Nathaniel failed to react he made sure it was clear just _what_ trouble could mean for someone whose body belongs to the King).

He freezes minutely, desperate not to let the instinctual fear show on his face or in his body language, trying to keep his stance casual, uncaring, but even Junior has a hard time to remain entirely calm when confronted with the fact that he fucked up so thoroughly.

(Insulting the wrong people is always, always worse than keeping a Wesninski waiting.)

“I—you, what?” Hemmick splutters indignantly, his dark complexion tinging reddish even as he frowns. It’s all Nathaniel can do not to flinch, his every muscle strung to breaking point, when Hemmick’s dark gaze sweeps the room in search of support.

(But there’s no DiMaccio, no Jackson and Romero and no Lola, waiting at his father’s beck and call; there’s no glinting blade, no cleaver or knife ready to be brought down on his skin.)

The seconds pass, and when nobody tenses as if getting ready to follow through with unsaid orders, when Nathaniel can’t discern any of the signs that usually point to imminent violence, he gradually relaxes, even though Hemmick lets loose another string of rambling Spanish—it sounds entirely too disgruntled for the fact that the few words Nathaniel does understand sound more like the ingredients for pizza than angry swear words.

Instead, the silence gets broken by a snort of laughter, snickers scatter around the room, and before Nathaniel knows how to react, he catches Walker/Shields hiding a little smile behind her hand, her dark eyes glinting with something Nathaniel doesn’t quite manage to identify. Every bit of relaxation drains from his body at once and his mind spirals into another near-panic as he tries to work out the possible meaning behind that smile, as he immediately recalculates the threat and recalls memorized blueprints and exit routes, as he wonders just how much of the rumors about her skill with a knife was a lie and exaggeration and how much of it was true; theoretically, he should be able to defend himself against everyone, but he’s hurt and exhausted, and she—

“He has a point there,” Andrew says, and Nathaniel isn’t the only one who stops short at the casual comment.

“What the fucking—” – “Andrew, what-?” – “You’re—”

“I think you broke them,” Nathaniel says, dryly, and he isn’t even thinking about Andrew’s exact same words a few days ago, but he can’t stop thinking about why the blond would do this for him, because he recognizes the narrowed look Andrew has fixed on him, and it tells him exactly how transparent he’s being, how he really needs to pull himself together now, or else.

Andrew smirks and the balance shifts. Nathaniel automatically mirrors the expression, but then he lets Junior’s smile take over his face; he’s kept him waiting long enough now anyway, and, being his father’s son, he doesn’t like dealing with those pathetic issues Nathaniel carries around with him—Junior’s too scarred for touch or punishment or pain to influence him the way they do Nathaniel, rendering him defenseless.

Hence, Nathaniel doesn’t flinch when he hears what Hemmick is saying next, in a fruitless attempt to defend what little wit he possesses. “Alright, I get it. Sorry for being so slow to catch up, but, if, like, you know, if he really only was Jean’s date, why does he have a number on his cheek now? Isn’t it like a great honor to have been chosen for Douchebag’s Perfect Court?” He pointedly keeps his gaze away from Nathaniel, looking at Kevin and the Foxes as if they’d know better.

“That’s what I’ve been wondering too,” Gordon says, his grin sly and provocative in a way that reminds Nathaniel of how some of the Ravens got whenever they thought of a particularly clever new insult for him (because Nathaniel deserved it; he was always the one being privileged, the one who got to have extra practice sessions with Riko, the one who received a great deal of their beloved captain’s attention, and nobody ever wondered whether Nathaniel even wanted that, or about what exactly might go on behind closed doors. Of course he deserved the verbal abuse on top of everything else). The striker’s bared teeth should probably have a threatening effect, but Nathaniel is too used to violence to be fazed by Bryan Seth Gordon. “I thought Riko meant to collect a Perfect Court, not to just buy some random sluts off the street,” and _oh_ , that stings in an entirely unexpected way although the insult isn’t necessarily anything new.

There’s a retort sitting on the tip of his tongue, an instinctual _“I’m sure I could show you a better time than your Barbie doll, then, don’t you think?”_ because pissing off people works best when you’re being a smartass, but before the words can make it past the barrier of his teeth, Reynolds stands next to her boyfriend, a hand on his arm and the most unlike-Barbie-doll expression on her face.

“Or did you do something else to impress him, other than to suck his cock or something equally disgusting?” she asks, ignoring Wilds’ scandalized little gasp, “Like, did you actually kill someone who was being a competition to your King instead of just breaking his hand? I’m sure that would’ve made Riko real proud. Proud enough to reward him with a Number, maybe?”

The last words are drowned out by a dull roaring in Nathaniel’s ears, and some distant part of him feels sick; another one is trying to argue that, in her own twisted way, she’s probably even trying to defend Kevin, but that part is rapidly losing ground to the nausea. Nathaniel tastes acrid bile and then coppery blood when he bites his tongue to stop the questions that press against his lips, the desperate pleading and denial, because he doesn’t actually know whether she means what she’s saying or if she’s just trying to rile him up, but he knows, _he knows_ , (please), that she can’t really know. No one knows and no one will ever know how close to the truth she really is, because… _No_.

Junior smiles back at the blonde, cold and collected and deadly calm, and if slitting her throat wouldn’t be so messy he’d already have made his move. As it is, he’s just opening his mouth to respond with something similarly cutting when an aborted movement from Kevin’s direction tears his attention away.

The striker looks paler than Nathaniel has ever seen him (even when there was blood and screams and white white bones), and if it weren’t for Andrew, he’d probably be out of his seat already, throwing himself at either Nathaniel or Reynolds, although Nathaniel doesn’t quite know _why_.

Andrew looks mildly amused even as he holds Kevin back by the collar and then pushes his head to the side, telling not to throw up on his shoes, they’re new.

“Shut up,” Kevin wheezes, eyes huge and haunted. “Don’t say—Shut up. He—”

“Did you let him get drunk at this time in the morning? Before practice?” Nathaniel asks sharply when Kevin’s incoherence persists, looking back at Andrew. When the blond just continues to grin as if he were in on a big joke no one else gets, Nathaniel turns his glare at Kevin. “Honestly, Kevin? You’ve sunk so low? If Riko knew that this is what it has come to, he’d—”

“Stop right there! Just _what_ is wrong with you, Raven? I don’t know why you think you have the right to come here and act all high and mighty and insult my team, but if you don’t shut up anytime soon…” Wilds trails off ominously, her eyes stormy and fierce, and Nathaniel thinks he might just be getting a glimpse of the woman who deserves being called a Class I captain. If only she wasn’t so completely misled by her idealism and loyalty he might actually have to take her threat seriously, considering how dangerous she might prove to be in his current shape.

“Oh no, don’t make him shut up,” Andrew says, “he’s got so many interesting things to say. Isn’t that so, Nathaniel?” and his smile is all teeth.

Wilds’ eyes flash at being told what to do and Boyd looks ready to jump in on his girlfriend’s defense, but before anyone can say anything, Wymack finally runs out of patience. “Alright, assholes, all of you shut up now. I didn’t risk Abby’s wrath and bring him here just so you can take out your frustrations on him. Yes, Kevin’s been an even bigger asshole these past few days and you had to suffer from it, but that wasn’t Nathaniel’s fault—not entirely, at least.”

“Coach?” Wilds inquires, her anger melting as she furrows her brow, and Walker/Shields asks “What does Abby have to do with this?”. Reynolds purses her lips, cocking her head to the side as she considers both Wymack and Nathaniel anew, and Gordon just raises his eyebrows, his expression as doubtful as Boyd’s.

“Why don’t you just listen to him for a moment?” The resigned tone has crept back into Wymack’s voice and his previous anger drains when he looks back at Nathaniel. Their eyes don’t meet. “He’s been through some rough patches lately.”

There’s a familiar exhaustion that comes with being heavily injured and then forced to be on one’s feet for so long, and it makes Nathaniel’s shoulders slump ever so slightly and when the attention is diverted from him for a moment, he takes the opportunity to close his eyes for a second; take half a step back and lean against the wall in order to take a bit of the weight off of his tired, hurting limbs—‘rough patches’ is an understatement, after all. Nathaniel doesn’t quite have it in him to be bothered by the more vulnerable position this stand puts him in; he’d still be able to quickly reach the scalpel, and if he crosses his arms in front of his chest and blanks his expression, he might come off as more nonchalant than defensive.

Andrew doesn’t buy it, of course he doesn’t, but he doesn’t do anything except for looking at Nathaniel either, even when Kevin makes another effort to get up.

“Alright then,” Wilds says, her voice as steely as her eyes as she stares straight at Nathaniel, “talk. What is it about Jean’s sweetheart that makes Kevin freak out so spectacularly?”

“Let me clear up one thing before we continue here,” Nathaniel says, and he makes sure his voice doesn’t tremble, is void of emotion, “and you better remember it. I am _not_ Jean’s sweetheart. Never have been, never will be. That’s…” He trails off and determinedly shakes his head, wrestling his expression back under control and knowing full well that he couldn’t guarantee for anything if he’d keep talking.

(“ _Not him too_ ,” Nicky complains in German, almost inaudibly, with a bitter twist around his mouth and Andrew’s posture changes slightly; but Nathaniel only sees it out of the corner of his eye and he doesn’t pay much attention to it.)

(That’s a lie.)

“But why else have you been at the banquet, then? You’re not on EA’s line-up or anything and yet you’ve got _that_ now.” Boyd motions to his own cheek, screwing up his face in question and … something else.

Nathaniel sighs, rakes a hand though his hair and grimaces when the stitches in his side pull a little. It’s going to be exhausting, going through everything again while making sure that he doesn’t stray too far from his original answers, doesn’t mix up all the lies he’s told and doesn’t risk a slip of the tongue. “Next season. If everything hadn’t gotten messed up, I would’ve officially been a Raven as of next season.” He pauses, taking in the various degrees of shock and surprise on the Foxes’ faces before he adds, “I’m still not sure whom to blame for it all, actually. What do you think, Kevin? Was it bad luck? Fate, maybe? Or was it entirely my fault? Riko’s? Or is it on you?” He smiles and it’s chilly enough that Kevin shivers.

It’s the first time Nathaniel in a long while that he looks his former teammate in the eye when he talks to him, no outright venom in his voice, and it has the intended effect; Kevin physically recoils, gasping like a drowning man, but at least his train of thought scatters, going off of those self-destructive tracks. “I—you—I’m so sorry, Nate, I didn’t—”

“Dangerous territory, Day. Don’t call me that.” Nathaniel says, deadly nonchalant, but he mechanically checks his fingernails for blood and scans the room, looking for shadows that don’t belong here.

“Is it just me or does anybody else not understand what they’re talking about?” Hemmick asks when it’s clear Kevin won’t find words anytime soon, his fists white-clenched, realization dawning.

The Foxes stay quiet and thus make it clear that they too still haven’t managed to connect the dots; Nathaniel can practically see the steam coming out of their ears because of how hard they’re thinking, unable to come to a satisfying result.

“Do you really need me to spell it out?” Nathaniel asks, looking at the captain who posed the question in the first place. It’s easier to just talk to one person instead of addressing the whole team, especially once he sorts out his thoughts and decides on a story. The look he receives in return is unimpressed, as is the grunt that comes from Reynolds’ direction.

“Well then,” Nathaniel says, refusing come across as uncomfortable as he feels. “So, Kevin and I … we were similar in some way. As you surely know, Kevin spent most of his childhood at Edgar Allan with his dear adoptive brother Riko Moriyama, inseparable and aiming for the stars. Only, you know, there are many things going on in Evermore that the media isn’t aware of. One of those is—was—me. So, with the banquet being held at EA and next season just around the corner, Riko thought it was time to unofficially introduce me to the NCAA world of Exy—or at least that’s what he told the Master. I’m sure all of you can imagine why he really wanted me there, though. Hell, maybe one of you is even smart enough to figure out why he arranged for the banquet to happen in the first place.” Nathaniel pauses, shifts his weight, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, because so far it’s all truth and for once, he isn’t quite using it as a weapon. “Ring any bells yet?”

“Are you… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Boyd says slowly, his expression dubious but dawning with horrible understanding.

Nathaniel grins devilishly. “I’m no mind-reader, but I’m pretty sure, yes. You don’t even have to know Riko to see why he might not have been happy about Kevin’s sudden departure, or all the circumstance accompanying it. And he’d do just about anything to get him to come back, so sending me out to cause a stir wasn’t all really that drastic, con—”

“Oh, no, of course it wasn’t drastic, there was only a fight and well-disguised death-threats and because of you we got kicked out and now I already have a red card. Not drastic? Are you really fucking serious?” Gordon spits, ironic and accusing, but Nathaniel can’t help but laugh as he fixes the striker with an utterly unamused stare.

“Yes, I am serious. You really got off light, considering…” He takes a breath. “Well, considering.”

“Nate, you don’t have to—”

“What the fuck did I just tell you?” Nathaniel snaps, and he feels his control slipping. But his hold on it is desperate, even as his breathing speeds up, grows too ragged for comfort. “You don’t get to call me that, asshole!”

“I didn’t—”

“No, you know what? I don’t know why I’m always stupid enough to—but you weren’t worth it, Day. You really, really weren’t.”

“Nathaniel—” He looks like he’s looking at a ghost, Nathaniel thinks, dully, and maybe it’s true. Nathaniel, the ghost of a past Kevin has happily left behind, and now it’s catching up with him. Nathaniel would probably feel sick about that, too.

“Kevin. I think it’s time for you to shut up,” Andrew says just then, and his smile is sharp-edged enough to cut. The distraction gives Nathaniel enough time to get ahold of himself again, to chase away unwanted thoughts and demons and memories.

“Well, that’s … not nice, but I kinda don’t see how that explains what you’re doing here, or why Kevin’s freaking out ‘bout his old buddy being here—or whatever you are now,” Reynolds says, and oh yes, it’s so tempting to slit her throat, especially now that she eyes him with a different, calculating look on her face, squinting as if she could see beneath his clothes and spot the bandages, the bruises and scars that litter a great part of his body.

“And _I_ don’t see how you still can’t connect the dots,” Nathaniel says, chasing Junior’s blood thirst out of his thoughts. “You don’t think Riko’s plan worked out the way he wanted it to, do you? And whose fault do you think that was? Surely not yours, right?” He laughs and Reynolds winces, her perfectly plucked eyebrows drawing together as she leans back into Gordon, but her piercing eyes don’t leave Nathaniel’s.

“Yeah,” Nathaniel mutters then, knowingly. “Exactly. And if you think breaking someone’s dominant hand is the worst thing Riko can come up with, you’re mistaken. Especially if he doesn’t have to pretend that they’re accidents. Yay me, right? So, to spell it out for you because otherwise you don’t seem to get it: Riko was furious. He threw a temper tantrum, Moriyama edition. Let it out on convenient targets. Then, when the damage was done, he somehow came up with the _brilliant_ plan to send my dead remains to Kevin. What are birthday presents, apology cards and thank-you gifts when you can have Riko’s patented ’Do as I say, or else’, right?” Nathaniel laughs, cold, sharp and bitter, and Kevin isn’t the only one who winces at that. “You know, I don’t really like being disappointed, actually, so I don’t like arriving here, alive despite Riko’s best efforts, to see that his petty scare-tactic actually would have worked if it weren’t for the fact that I’m not really, you know, dead. Hell, even so he was so fucking close to losing it and go back to Evermore, begging for Riko to take him back, and none of you seem to particularly care. That’s just…” _Deep breaths_ , Nathaniel tells himself, _don’t freak out, don’t lose your shit, not now, don’t let them_ —

“I hope that answers your question, _Allison_ ,” Nathaniel forces out that feels scraped raw with emotion, even though he doesn’t actually let himself _feel_ it. That kind of vitriolic sass has always been one of his best defense mechanisms, after all.

It doesn’t really help against the sudden silence, though. He almost hears Reynolds’ name echoing in the lounge and it kind of freaks him out that he’s even let it slip. Junior’s supposed to be more controlled than that. For once, though, nor even Andrew laughs—not yet at least. Instead, he actually looks interested in finding out how his team is going to react to this news.

Nathaniel doesn’t know why he much rather looks at Andrew than at anyone else and why he doesn’t feel panic clawing up his throat at having revealed so much, mostly of his own volition. Still, talking sometimes is easier to handle than the silence ( _“Silence speaks louder than words, Junior, look at how prettily he trembles in fear.”_ ), so he only lets another thirty seconds pass before continuing, and suddenly he craves fresh air but he slips his mask back on before someone might catch a glimpse of the _humanity_ still left in him ( _“I thought I craved that out of you last time.”_ ).

“So, now that you know, it’s really up to you whether to kick me out or to let me stay for a few more days. Wymack here thought it was necessary to let you know about the risk that comes with me being here, so… if you’ve got any complaints about that, don’t bother letting it out on me or Kevin—or on Andrew, if you dare.” He bares his teeth in the mockery of a smile, and he winks cheekily when he catches Andrew’s unimpressed stare that seeps even through the drug-induced laughter. Then, his smile turns flat. “No, really, you’ve only got to blame Abby. She’s the one who wouldn’t let me bleed out on her doorstep, who wouldn’t even let me leave once I could walk again, so… well, you get the picture.” Nathaniel ignores the glares he receives from various Foxes, he’s just glad the pity and shock have faded from their expressions.

He turns his attention back to Wymack (David Vincent). “See, Coach, now I said my piece. I’m sure you don’t need me here for the discussion. Your team’s supposed to consist of grown-ups after all, I’m sure you can make the decision for yourselves. Now, if you’d excuse me… I’ll just go—take a walk or something. You can let me know about the verdict once I get back, yeah?”

Nathaniel doesn’t wait for an answer, so he’s by the door when the Coach calls after him. “Don’t go too far, though, Abby’ll have my head if I let you get lost on your first day outside. Practice will be over at about eleven. I’ll take you back to Abby’s afterwards, okay?”

Nathaniel nods but he doesn’t pause, although he does make a point to leave the room calmly, collected, because showing weakness in a situation like this would be something just short of a death-sentence—then he closes the door behind himself and makes it two steps before practically collapsing against the wall, his whole body shaking as he searches for a semblance of control, desperately holding himself up, refusing to sink quite _that_ low. His muscles ache something fierce, his cuts burning and head pounding, and he can just _hear_ the fracturing of bones that have just started healing.

Nathaniel takes a moment to snap himself out of it; he still has a plan, a mission to accomplish, step by step, but first he’ll have to assess the situation he’s leaving behind.

Many decisions about his life and how he’s to live it have been made without him having any say in it. He still hasn’t, now, but he’s learned that it’s better to know what’s coming than to be left hanging, taken by surprise when the moment comes. And Nathaniel doens’t like being caught off-guard although he’s aware that there’s not much he can do to avoid it.

Either way, he’ll hear for himself what arguments the Foxes come up with before they inevitably throw him out; because even though he hasn’t been prepared for that first meeting to go so smoothly—he’s expected much more screaming and violence and pain, more fighting and less talking, the Foxes are quite infamous for their delinquency, after all—there’s no way they’d want to keep him after that.

(Nathaniel reminds himself that that was the plan all along, the end-game that’ll allow him to walk away from here, run and survive.)

(He doesn’t think about how tired he is of _surviving_.)

(And he definitely doesn’t envy Kevin for the life he’s found here, for the people willing to protect him by slinging insults at strangers with no context or backstory, just because they know he’s hurting even though he is an utter asshole.)

Nathaniel sits down on the floor where they won’t be able to see him instantly although he knows that they don’t have to leave through this door in order to get to the changing room; he strains his ears, ignores the pain, and concentrates on listening, catching the moment when the decision about his near future will be made.

(He doesn’t care that his fate once again lies in hands that do not belong to him; after all, he knows how to make do with just about every possible situation that's forced upon him. He's a _survivor_.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was that.  
> I imagine the Foxes aren't quite so nice to someone who doesn't have any business here and manages to reduce Kevin to this state only by being here, so that's my take on it.  
> If anything doesn't make sense, please tell me. I've changed this chapter so many times it's possible something seems out of context or so because there actually isn't any context anymore. 
> 
> How realistic do you find the reaction? Does anyone seem in character so far?  
> Are insults and sass appropriate? Are people being too nice or too mean?  
> Did the chapter approximately measure up to your expectations? If not, what could I change?
> 
> (You see, I'm being insecure again, you don't have to indulge him. Just a little feedback or comment would be enough. there's even space for you to yell at the characters.)
> 
> On an entirely different note, I've got tumblr, in case anyone's interested. I'm not VERY active, but if anyone's interested, got any questions or concerns or anything else, you can find me here: https://baerlii.tumblr.com
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter despite all its messy chaos and stuff.  
> Have a nice weekend :)


	12. Not actually a chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.
> 
> (Help me).

So, um, hi.

First of all, I'm sorry. That this is not yet a chapter, that I've made you wait for so long, and for various other reasons, too.

Life was a bit crazy these past few months and a lot has changed. I've graduated from Gymnasium, turned a year older, was on vacation, got a dog, started an apprenticeship and those are just the most 'life-changing' things...

Anyway. I actually did have (would have had) the time to write, but I've been having difficulties finding back into the story.

It's definitely not turning out the way I originally planned and while that doesn't exactly bother me, it's difficult to find a way to continue it while still making sense.

Another reason why I'm hesitating to write at the moment is because it's been so long that I have to read through the entire story again in order not to mess up important details etc I couldn't memorize and I'm seeing so many mistakes and things I could have done better I find it difficult not to correct those things and that would probably change the whole story...

So, the point I'm getting at is: do you think I should just ignore those things and write on or would you be up for a rewrite?

The rewrite would most likely include quite a few changes, deleted scenes and changes in character, but also a (hopefully) better timeline and more things actually happening, so...

Your opinion?

I'm asking mostly because I really, really want to write again but I just don't know how and I've never been known for my decisiveness (it's kind of a problem, really).

(I apologize again for my apparent inability to just finish something I start and all the 'troubles' I've caused you, but I also want to thank you all. There were so many great, supportive comments, I still can't believe it. And 550 kudos. God, this crappy story and my general craziness isn't deserving of such things. But thank you. It means so, so much to me.)

SO. I'll listen to everything you have to say, even if you just want to yell at me. 

Thank you. 


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm (or something)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, here. *throws chapter at you*
> 
> You convinced me. No, joking.  
> I really took all your comments to heart and it helped me. so much, really.  
> New motivation is the all-cure to writer's block, it seems. So, I read through the last chapters again and suddenly it seemed okay. I mean, it's not a perfect story and not everything makes perfectly sense, but hey, I'm human, and I'm only doing this for fun because those damned characters won't leave me alone anymore.  
> Anyway, that wasn't the point of that author's note.  
> I just wanted to thank you all for your patience and your trust in me, so here I am, posting a new chapter and already having the one for next week on hand because I'm awesome like that xD
> 
> There's nothing much happening, but I still hope you'll like it and bear with me. The action will come soon enough, if everything works out the way I planned it to. And boy, those boys won't get a break if it does :D
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (trigger warnings, if you can call them that: a little bit of blood when Seth's being an asshole and some kinda graphic gore at the beginning of Nathaniel's pov, but that's just something that'll always come up when he remembers things from his past...)

Wymack’s voice is deadpan when he finally turns back from watching the door close behind the Raven. “Alright people, you heard him. Let your _maturity_ speak and tell me what you think.”

Andrew sighs. “Oh, no, Coach, don’t ask them to be mature and all grown up! They’ll crumble under the pressure.”

The instant effect his comment has is almost laughable. There’s more distrust and loathing in the Foxes’ gazes when they look at Andrew now than there’d been when they’ve been confronted with a goddamned Raven infecting their territory, casually dishing out threats and insults despite his inability to keep upright for more than five minutes.

Really, for all that this whole thing has promised to turn out interesting, it’s played out pretty anticlimactically in the end, boring even. No one even drew blood, and Andrew’s kind of disappointed by the lack of screaming and freak-outs.

It would have made for a nice distraction from the walking tragedy that is Nathaniel Wesninski; the tragedy and disaster and conundrum, who only proves to be more infuriating with every passing hour. Oh, and how Andrew needs a distraction from the pretty, multilingual Raven (the pretty, multilingual, _talented_ Raven, if Kevin’s words are to be trusted) that apparently was tossed out of its Nest because he’d misbehaved and opened his beak too wide, because _Riko_ had forgotten himself all over again. _Yeah, no_. Somehow Andrew doesn’t see that happen, not if he knows how Riko ticks at all. (Oh and he knows how Riko’s mind works, knows all about those daddy-issues and the things he’d be willing to do in order to receive Kengo’s attention, the lengths he’d go to ensure he stays Number One—he wouldn’t give up so easily, would find a way to make Nathaniel truly _suffer_ before… tossing him aside like a wet rug, before _killing_ him.)

Someone hasn’t quite told the truth here, Andrew knows, and he fully intends to interrupt whoever is talking at the moment and put that thought out there, but he finds himself unable to do so.

His medication choses this exact moment to sweep him up for another wild ride on the edges of a manic smile and a hazy mind, of _too much_ and _too little_ , and the thought, the _suspicion_ , gets lost somewhere in the turbulence, ripped out of his greedy fingers, and then they’re closing, once again, around a wisp of smoke, the echo of _something_ , and there’s nothing left for him to cling to, nothing to anchor him, to capture his attention.

He’s left swimming, floating, _falling_ , until Kevin shifts next to him, and Andrew immediately latches onto that, onto the heat and weight and texture of Kevin’s body next to his, pulling himself upward thread by thread, smell and noise and sight, until he feels like he has solid ground under his feet once more—or at least solid enough that he can balance himself out somehow. It’s always a fight, always exhausting, and most often it’s easier to just let himself be washed away, to let reality seem like the dream, destroyed by the slightest waft of air, than to try and resist, force himself to be the unmovable rock when everything else just seems to be slipping through his fingers. Today he can’t do that, today he has to cling to the feel of cotton underneath his fingertips, to the cigarette smoke that sticks to his clothes and Kevin’s stupid one-hundred-dollar perfume that always makes his nose itch, has to listen to Seth’s annoying voice and to look at the corny, hand-painted fox paw that adorns the room’s ceiling because Dan thought it’d be a good team-building exercise (it wasn’t, not with Nicky insisting they had to paint it Goldfish orange, _not Tangerine, Allison, are you stupid?_ and everything else that followed)—he has to anchor himself to reality because this is actually important.

By the time Andrew has managed to pull himself back into the loop of the conversation he’s exhausted in a way that goes beyond physicality, a numbness spreading and receding that makes his toes and fingertips tingle, and goddammit, he _hates_ it. The conversation seems to have been ongoing for a while already, but Andrew doesn’t let the disorientation take root in his body, mind and thought, not when there’s the _spectacular_ sight of one red-faced, absolutely furious Bryan Seth Gordon to behold.

“No, Matt, it’s not! I’ve got a fucking red card because of that asshole, I’ll sooner break _his_ hand, too, before I let him stay!”

Andrew’s gaze snaps down from the ceiling at Seth’s angry words, and immediately locks on Kevin who’s gone still next to him. He doesn’t move a muscle except for the thumb that rubs circles into the scars of his left hand as if he could make them disappear that way, Kevin’s default tell for distress and discomfort that sometimes makes Andrew wonder just how stupid everyone is not to see it, to keep pushing him, to refuse to acknowlege just how _broken_ Kevin is, but today’s patience has long since run out and everything that’s left in him is the instinct to act, _protect, make them stay away_.

“Whose hand are we breaking?” Andrew asks, his cheerful tone a stark contrast to the words he’s saying and to the knife he’s holding an inch from Seth’s throat.

“Woah!” Allison calls out, only just barely managing to catch herself against the armrest of the couch she’s been sharing with her boyfriend. Andrew doesn’t blink.

Seth narrows his eyes, his face an angry grimace that doesn’t quite give way to fear, but Andrew can hear his pulse flutter, he’s so close even without touching the striker. Not entirely stupid, then. That’s good to know.

Or maybe Andrew was too quick to judge, because what Seth says next is something he should know better than to mention when there’s a knife within Andrew’s reach, let alone already in his hand. “Fuck you, freak. I don’t know why you’re not getting worked up over this, like, fuck. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, go bite the fucking Raven in the ass? I thought Kevin basically made you his bitch, so why don’t you—” Andrew’s fingers slip, just a little bit, accidentally, and the increasing pressure on his windpipe forces Seth to swallow and cough, but he doesn’t seem to get the very clear warning, because he continues to talk, his voice just a bit hoarser. “—fuck the little Raven over? But it’s not like you’re the only one with a right to be angry so don’t act like you’ll be offended if I did to _Nathaniel_ ’s hand just what he did to Kevin’s. Really, you should be grateful I’m willing to take that burden from you and—”

It’s only thanks to Renee’s quick reflexes and vicelike grip that a drop or two are all the blood that’s getting spilled at the moment. Thanks to Renee and Kevin’s sharp intake of breath, the barely swallowed-down whimper that shows too clearly that Seth isn’t just spewing nonsense once again, that there’s some truth in his words, and _that_ is enough to redirect Andrew’s restless energy. Whip-like, and with enough intensity it almost has to hurt, he focuses his attention on his protégé who was supposed to have told him everything there is to know about the Raven in their territory, was supposed to be honest and _tell no lies_.

Andrew smiles sweetly as he once again approaches the broken striker, his gait purely predatory. “Kevin. Day. Hey, Day. Have you been lying to me? I thought you knew what happens to liars. Where’s your excuse?”

“You wouldn’t have listened to me,” Kevin tries, but his voice is feeble, throaty, even as there’s a defiant spark in his eyes as he carefully keeps Andrew’s knife in his line of sight. He clears his throat when Andrew comes to a halt and eventually meets his gaze. How curious.

“You wouldn’t have listened, Andrew. You wouldn’t have given him a chance and he—he needs a chance. Desperately. Ple—I… It doesn’t matter, it wasn’t him him, none of you would understand just how—there’s nothing you could compare it to, how it was there, in the Nest. Just—I don’t blame him and you shouldn’t either, because really, he was the one who got me out in the end, without him, I… So, just. Forget it, yeah?”

“ _Forget it_?” Only Dan would manage to sound so offended on another’s behalf. “You’re seriously saying that it doesn’t matter that this guy broke your fucking dominant hand? Almost ended your career? That’s—”

“Boring, actually,” Andrew fills in before she can work herself up into truly righteous anger. “They’re Ravens, what else did you expect? That’s just one more fucked up thing to know about them.” He pauses for a moment to see Dan’s face fall, but doesn’t give her a chance to interrupt. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m interested in. Kevin and I are going to have a talk and none of you will interrupt. But first, I have another question for you. Do you really want the little birdie to go back? Back where, apparently, deliberately breaking someone’s hand _doesn’t matter_ , as Dan so nicely puts it? And that’s not even talking about the charming little fairy tale Nathaniel has just told us.” Andrew looks at Kevin, as if in afterthought. “ _He’s_ a great liar, by the way. Maybe you should take a leaf out of his book, learn his ways.” He grins when the striker blanches, and turns back to the rest of the Foxes. “Or do you want to listen to dear Kevin here for once? He’s got an interesting offer to make, and now that you know about poor Nathaniel’s sob story you’ll see that he fits right in.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Renee smiles, small and private, when Andrew catches her eye, and that’s when he realizes that the stunned silence and the gob-smacked expressions on the Foxes’ faces aren’t there because of _what_ he’s said, but because of the fact that he’s even talked so much and still made sense. He usually doesn’t make it a habit to waste that many words on the small minds of his teammates.

The moment stretches on and the stares become annoying very quickly. Andrew lets the drugs do their thing and pull his lips into a wide grin while the restless energy makes a reappearance, fills him up until his body almost overflows with it. He drums his fingers on his knees and bares his teeth at the Coach. “See, that’s how you shut them up. Seems so easy, doesn’t it?”

Wymack doesn’t quite react, he just regards Andrew in that thoughtful way that makes his skin crawl at the almost physical feel of it, a kind of scrutiny that has never sat well with Andrew. He doesn’t wait for his thoughts to take a turn down the memory-lane where heavy stares and heavy hands just wait around the corner.

He hops up instead, when the finger-drumming isn’t enough to get rid of the buzzing under his skin anymore, and he claps into his hands before the energy has the chance to turn into something else. “Well, I’m gonna change now, Coach. The court’s waiting!”

Andrew laughs at the expression on the man’s face as he saunters out of the room, but it takes more than something like that to render David Wymack speechless, so Andrew’s still within hearing range when the Coach pulls himself together and bellows “He’s right, maggots. Let’s practice now, you can think about it again later. We’ll decide on how to go on with this shit storm at lunch. Yes, Seth, it’s mandatory. And yes, there’ll be pizza. Get your asses in gear. Here’s hope some running around will bring you to your senses, and no, Andrew,” he raises his voice a little to call out, “I’ve not given up on expecting anyone to act mature here.”

“Yet, Coach. You haven’t given up yet,” Andrew singsongs and leaves, the door rather un-dramatically swinging closed behind him.

 

***

 

Neil Josten lets his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He doesn’t want the nicotine; he wants the acrid smoke that conjures up so many memories.

Inhaling slowly and closing his eyes, he lets himself remember, just for a moment. The ghost of gasoline and fire, his mother’s burning corpse, torn to shreds by Lola’s knife. It wasn’t a quick death, and Neil can perfectly recall Mary’s endless screams, her pleading and begging for her son’s life, but never for her own. She’d known it was over by the time his father crushed her kneecaps. He’d never known whether his father had intended for the effect the following torture had had on his son or not, but sometimes, Neil doesn’t know what was worse: seeing her like that and getting away scrape-free in comparison or going through the weeks afterwards and wishing he’d been in her place. Sometimes, he wonders whether he wasn’t the one who died that day and Evermore was his own personal hell. He wouldn’t put that past the universe; after all, it never really seemed to like him.

He sighs and swallows, a sick shudder rolling down his spine when he takes another deep breath and there’s another burst of memories coming forth, at once revolting and comforting.

The jolt goes down all the way to his fingertips, dislodging a clump of ash. It falls to the ground between his shoes and is whisked away by the wind, taking the memory of his mother with it.

Neil puts the cigarette between his lips and takes a drag.

The smoke smells differently when he’s inhaling it, not as chocking, more like freedom. It’s night and two cherry burns are the only thing illuminating the darkness. Jean’s close to him, and he’s shaking—they both are. Pain and relief, fear and hope; their own quiet rebellion, the only way they know how to. It’s something to hold onto when everything threatens to drown them, a small light in the darkness; the cherry of a cigarette, breaking rules until the shaking stops. Then they go back inside and no one else is any the wiser.

It’s not quite a smile on Neil’s lips, not quite tears in his eyes. He glances up at the sky, and he imagines the stars that are up there even when they’re washed out by the glare of the sun, the stars that will still be there even when he isn’t anymore, unaffected by the things going on on the puny planet Earth. Then, he wonders if his mother is up there too, looking down at him. He hopes not. He doesn’t want to think about what she’d do if she knew what he’s doing.

Neil takes another drag, catching the smoke and holding it until the memories burn away with the ashes, then he exhales and puts out the cigarette, flicking it down the next drain.

It’s time to go back, and that’s a thought he never thought he’d have. Going back. He’s never had a place to go back to before, isn’t even sure whether there is one now, but the thought is strangely disquieting all the same.

He bends down, mechanically goes through the duffle bag at his feet, triple-checking everything. The passport is on top, and it has his name in it. A new identity, enough to cover his tracks for at least a little while. He’s Neil Josten, from Millport, Arizona. He’s eighteen, and he looks nothing like Nathaniel Wesninski, what with his black hair and brown eyes, non-descript clothing and faraway gaze. He’s quiet, unassuming, someone who easily blends in. The boy at the back of the class, not number four of the Perfect Court. It’s a good cover. Normal. And _God_ , Neil doesn’t know what normal feels like anymore, isn’t sure he ever has.

There’s also a driver’s license, a couple of burner phones and a change of clothes, hair dye and colored contacts, canned food, a small medical kit and a stack of money. In a black binder, there are various newspaper clippings, seemingly randomly assorted numbers and nursery rhymes that’ll lead the way to at least the quarter of a million dollar. Stuart may not have been able to make sense of everything, but he knew his sister well enough to realize the meaning of that last letter she’d sent him.

Neil shudders only thinking of what his father would have done if he weren’t misled to believe that the money was truly lost.

Once he’s put everything back in order and pocketed the phone that had a sticky note on it saying ‘use me first’, together with a weirdly distorted smiley-face, he has to take a moment to pause, to remain where he is even when everything in him screams to _don’t stop, don’t look back_ , and run in the opposite direction.

Neil already knows how he’d get to London, Canada, can imagine the quiet, shy boy who doesn’t want to be any trouble; he’s just on the way to visit his sick grandmother in Canada but his car broke down or maybe even got stolen, _you don’t think you could take me upstate for a few miles, do you_? It takes a minute or two to make himself shed the comforting personality of innocent Neil Josten, to feel himself back into Nathaniel and the gaping hole Junior’s presence has left behind, the numbness that spreads all the way down to his fingertips and makes him crave another cigarette.

( _“Developing an addiction is sign of character weakness, Junior. It’s something others will exploit, something they can control you with. - Isn’t that so, dear Patrick? Isn’t that why you’re here now, whimpering for mercy, for the next shot? - It’s pathetic, Junior, and in the end, it will only bring death, as dear Patrick here will soon be able to testify.”_ )

He doesn’t give into it.

Instead, Nathaniel slings the duffel over his shoulder, gives his hands something else to do, distracts himself with the much more physical pain that comes from heavy fists and scratches along his back, from having run the miles that separated Palmetto State and Stuart’s hiding place, and picks up pace again before he can get lost in his head, taking the short way back to campus.

He’s been gone for about an hour and a half, and he doesn’t want to risk Wymack calling the police on him after all, not when he’s already held himself back from simply disappearing the moment opportunity struck.

Somehow, for an unfathomable reason, he also doesn’t want to disappoint Abby, doesn’t want to act against doctor’s order for once in his life, and that thought is enough to make him wish he’d run instead, because that right here, that’s not only disquieting, it’s dangerous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, not much happening, at least not on Neil's end. But I liked the idea of introducing 'Neil' like that, so there's that. 
> 
> And, um, I don't know if you noticed, but somehow I end up describing the effect of Andrew's drugs differently every time I write about it and that was one of the things I thought to fix with a rewrite. I'm not sure if it bothers anyone that I'm so inconsistent with it and I really don't want to offend anyone or something, but since I have no experience whatsoever with drugs or medication I'm just using my imagination... So, yeah, if it bothers anyone, just say it, otherwise I'll just call it artistic freedom and go on like that ..
> 
> Hope you liked it even though it was rather short and filler-y : )


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's gonna be fun.  
> Some truths, some lies, some action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently I lied.  
> The chapter wasn't quite ready last week, and there still were some things I wasn't happy with. Right now, though, I think it isn't too bad, though the real action will get delayed to the next chapter, but I'm sure it's going to be fun...  
> There's a lot of talking and truths and it's a build-up for later chapters and, yeah, enjoy the quiet while it lasted. Hope you like this and my twist on things. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay again, but thanks so much for all the nice comments! You really know how to make my day :) Hope maybe this can brighten yours :D

It’s almost a relief when the obnoxiously orange outer walls of the court appear in his line of sight, because now at least the itch in his legs fades a little, the urge to turn around as long as he still can. For once, there’s no longing welling up in him as he walks through the hallways of the Foxhole court, even if Exy is so close he can smell, hear and taste it. Junior doesn’t care for the sport, and he’s making his opinions known even when he’s gone for the moment.

Nathaniel has always wondered about that, though. His love for Exy has been the one great constant during all his life, always there, sitting under his skin, no matter where or who he was.

Junior though seems to have had it beaten (carved and burned) out of him—or maybe he simply doesn’t have enough of a soul left to feel such a strong emotion, not enough of himself to be able to spare the energy he needs so desperately for survival.

Or. Or Nathaniel is becoming crazy, slowly but surely, while thinking of himself as different people, as if it’d somehow make a difference, as if it’d be easier to cope that way.

In the Nest, he’s seen a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcohol and drugs and mindless sex the mildest of them, but he doesn’t think that, on a scale of all things unhealthy, there’s even a place for what he’s doing here.

But Nathaniel shakes his head as he makes his way back into the lounge, forcefully dispelling that line of thought. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in his head, as long as he doesn’t let it distract him, as long as he can avoid thinking about it too deeply. In the end, the only thing that matters is that he doesn’t let his attention slip because of that, for if he’s distracted in the wrong moment? Well, then there won’t be a head to worry about anymore.

He grimaces slightly at his own morbidity, and at the grimy state of the floor, before he gets down on his knees in order to properly hide his duffel bag under one of the couches where he knows nobody would ever think to look. Then, Nathaniel mentally maps out all entrances and exits to the stadium one last time before eventually walking down the hallway he knows will lead him directly to the court.

The flutter that usually accompanies any and all thoughts regarding the sport is still missing from his stomach, but even so he feels his pulse spike when he nears the final, orange door separating him from the place most of his life circles around.

Nathaniel hears them before he sees them, before he’s even pressed the door handle all the way down. The Coach is yelling something, and several voices call right back until the distinct thump of an Exy ball hitting a body shuts them up.

It’s quiet for a moment before the scrambling and running and cursing starts up again, and Nathaniel uses the opportunity to slip in through the door into the outer court undetected. The sight of it steals his breath away for a moment, manages to plow through the thick fog of Junior’s presence for just a few seconds, just long enough to realize that it’s been two weeks or so since he’d last stepped a foot on a court, which isn’t long in and of itself, and _yet_.

Nathaniel slowly makes his way through the outer court, then up the stairs into the stands, always keeping an eye on what’s happening on court but not actually bothering to give them his full attention. It hurts to watch.

The Foxes are a disorganized mess, and despite the relatively good season they’ve just played under Kevin’s assistant-coaching, they’re in no way up to even Raven-Freshmen standards. Kevin seems to know that just as well, but underneath Nathaniel can see just how much he loves this. It’s a challenge entirely different to what Kevin’s ever faced in the Nest, but he seems devoted to it, dedicated to helping the Foxes improve, and, most astonishingly, he seems to actually _believe_ he can help them, despite the endless stream of derision, scorn and bellowing orders to do better, faster, _harder, more precision, fucking concentrate!_ that falls from his lips.

Nathaniel takes a last look at the people within the plexiglass before averting his gaze. Walker is in goal on one side, taking a battering from Gordon and Wilds while Boyd and Hemmick abjectly fail to drive them back, Reynolds and Minyard are hanging back somewhere, not quite knowing how to interfere and therefore arguing with each other. Andrew’s in goal on the other side of the court, looking for all the world as if he’s about to fall asleep on his feet where he leans heavily on his racquet, uncaring about Kevin screaming something at him that Nathaniel can’t quite make out, but then Andrew lifts his head and catches Nathaniel’s eye. He can practically see the grin forming on his face from all the way up the bleachers, and when Andrew lifts his left hand to give him a two-fingered salute, Nathaniel flips him the bird and proceeds to lie down across two or three seats, fully intending to rest his exhausted, aching body until Wymack takes him back to Abby’s.

But, of course, fate doesn’t want him to catch a break, so Kevin isn’t the only one to follow Andrew’s gaze and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Practice comes to an abrupt halt when Kevin practically leaps across the court and wrenches open the door with such a ferocity it slams into the plexiglass wall hard enough to sound like a gunshot.

Promptly, Nathaniel’s—Junior’s—instincts kick in full-force and he sits back upright in a blink, the scalpel sitting in his hand as if it’s a weapon suitable to bring to a gunfight, his body poised to either attack or duck and run.

“You fucking asshole!” Kevin screams as he approaches in long strides, full of righteous anger. Andrew isn’t far behind him and neither is the rest of the team after a moment of dumbfounded hesitation. “Where were you the whole time?”

Junior—Nathaniel—resists the urge to just throw the knife and shut the asshole up for good, mostly because he can see in Andrew’s posture that he wouldn’t live to enjoy the quiet afterwards. That’s too bad.

He doesn’t answer to Kevin’s question, either, though, sitting back down instead and putting the scalpel away before someone other than Andrew catches sight of it, but he’s already too late. That Walker girl is good—or maybe it’s the Shields in her—but he doesn’t think he has to worry about it. Or at least not about her spilling the beans; the look on her face is too knowing, too understanding and full of shadows for that to be an option.

Kevin’s coming up the stairs, now, and he brings his midget-y shadow with him. “Well?” he demands when he’s standing directly over Nathaniel, his presence big and looming, but even Junior knows that the striker is no real threat to him—the more dangerous one stands behind him anyway.

“Well,” Nathaniel drawls and sinks back into the admittedly rather comfortable stadium seat, sprawling his legs in a show of pure provocation. “You know. Here and there. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Andrew laughs and Kevin’s face grows red and heated so fast it’s almost worrying—if worrying were something Nathaniel is capable of at the moment. But the whole scene doesn’t seem quite real, it’s as if he’s watching himself act and react from behind a screen of fog that simultaneously dulls his emotions and sharpens his senses, that makes him notice the details while kind of blurring the whole picture.

It’s at the same time nauseating and familiar, and thankfully, it makes not-caring all the easier.

“Nate—”

“You really don’t ever learn, do you?” Nathaniel asks, smiling. And now, finally, it seems to click. Kevin does a double-take and pales as he recognizes the one he’s talking to, but he doesn’t step back. That’s admirable, really. And surely it’s only because there’s a midget at his back with knifes up his sleeves because there’s no way in the world Kevin Day would ever stand up to Junior alone. Plus, there’s the thing about eight witnesses staring up a them from below the stands, so Nathaniel really wouldn’t do himself any favors if he were to, say, maim Kevin a little for his brattishness.

Nathaniel sighs when Kevin just keeps looking at him, mouth a tight line but eyes unusually fierce, waiting for an answer that won’t come. “I’m tired, Kevin. Leave me alone and go tend to your own mess. Not that it will help you any, mind, but then at least you’re occupied for a couple hours a day and can’t do other stupid things.”

The line around Kevin’s mouth tightens. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I think I do. This team? You have to know that it was a fluke that they’ve even made it to championships this year. There’s no way they can—” He cuts himself off, doesn’t say _“hold their own against Edgar Allan when they’re coming south this fall”_. A part of Nathaniel wants to scream the sentence out there, wants to show Kevin exactly what he’s up against and that he’s destined to lose— _his hand, his team, his life_ —, wants to warn him and tell him to leave while he still can. The rest of him though, the part that knows exactly what it is like to lose everything, to fight every step of the way and still end up disappointed, the part that’s envied Kevin all his life, that hates him with a passion because he’s has it so _easy_ —well, he can’t quite be bothered to open his mouth. It’s not even maliciousness or the desire for some weird kind of revenge, but more just the knowledge that no matter what you do, the bad things always catch up with you in the end and Kevin’s never been a particularly fast runner. So he doesn’t say anything. Kevin’ll learn of Riko’s scheme soon enough anyway, and Nathaniel plans to have put oceans between them when that time comes, so it’s not like any this is going to concern him.

Thankfully, Kevin’s too busy getting all worked up and offended to notice the slip of tongue.

“Oh yeah? And how is it you know that? You haven’t even bothered watching them practice, you just showed up out of nowhere now and—”

“I can easily spare me the pain of watching that pathetic display of what you blasphemously call Exy practice and still know that you’ve got no chance next year. Which, by the way, is totally unrelated to the fact that you’ve got only nine players,” Nathaniel says, calmly, and waits for the insinuation to sink in, to divert from the current topic.

Kevin doesn’t seem to know how to react to that comment, his temper clearly threatening to get the better of him. It takes a while for the dots to connect, for the implication to make sense, but when it does, the effect is instantaneous and violent. Kevin steps back, retreats, almost trips over himself in his haste to flee and just barely avoids to collide with Andrew in the process, his breathing suddenly heavy, panicked, _haunted_. “ _No_ ,” he breathes, and the sound is utterly wretched.

This time, Nathaniel’s smile is grim. “Yes,” he says, just when Andrew takes Kevin’s place, his presence taking up more space than his body-size accounts for. He seems tense, but there’s no knife in his hand just yet. So he’s realized Nathaniel wouldn’t be a threat for now. What a clever boy.

“What are you saying, Raven?” Andrew asks, and someone who doesn’t know him might think he, too, was offended on his team’s behalf, might mistake the flat tone of voice as barely reined-in anger instead of recognizing it for the carefully composed threat it is. Andrew’s too perceptive for his own good.

“Nobody bothered to ask Janie Smalls why she tried to kill herself, did they? You knew she had problems, she was supposed to become a Fox after all, but don’t you think she’d have been happy for the light at the end of the tunnel, for the chance to finally escape her abusive asshole of a boyfriend? To not have to beg at street corners for food anymore?” Nathaniel’s smile sharpens when there’s a curse coming from Wymack at those words, and several other expletives from the rest of the Foxes. “Yeah. Guess who went to talk to her before that happened. Riko’s always a step ahead, and I think it’d do you good to never forget that.”

“Why is he doing that?” Kevin whispers, pathetically brokenhearted as if any of this comes as a surprise.

“He loves you very dearly. And he doesn’t like losing. He’s a very possessive bastard. And jealous. Oh, so jealous. You should know all that, though, Kevin. You knew him longest, after all.”

“But, he—I never realized—that…”

“Of course not. I thought we already established you didn’t really know all of him, didn’t we? Anyway. Can this discussion be over now? I’d like to take a nap, my eyes hurt.”

Andrew snorts at that, probably the only one to get the reference to Nathaniel’s earlier statements—or at least the only one to find it funny how Nathaniel insults the team even now—and he seems placated, so Nathaniel leans back again, closing his eyes as if he’d really intend to sleep like this.

For one, blessed minute, there’s silence.

Then, Reynolds asks “How come the bastard isn’t in prison yet?” in a tone of voice that makes it clear she doesn’t honestly expect an answer.

In that case, Nathaniel will give her one she doesn’t want to hear. He can imagine her to still have connections to her family’s lawyers and to eventually get a stupid idea in her head, so he prevents those ideas from manifesting in the first place by saying, “Try tracing it back to him. All those who tried ended up dead at one point or another, so I don’t recommend it. But, by all means, go ahead. ‘S not like your parents would particularly care.”

“Just shut up, freak,” Gordon says, and Nathaniel’s sure he has his teeth bared now, in an unnecessary show of protectiveness or something, but he doesn’t actually care to check, let alone sit back up again. “You’re worse than the monster.” And that is clearly meant as an insult, but since Nathaniel isn’t quite sure whom it’s directed at or what it’s supposed to mean, he just continues to ignore the striker. It’s not like he has anything interesting to say anyway.

Or maybe he does, or at least he’s realized that he’ll have to change tactics if he wants Nathaniel to respond. Gordon makes a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat, then there’s a second of silence, an inhalation so loud Nathaniel can hear it from where he’s sitting several rows up in the stands, and then he says, “Alright, let’s pretend that you didn’t just say and imply what you did, say we’re disregarding all of that. That still doesn’t explain where you get off saying we won’t reach championships again next year. What I’m interested in is what gives you that idea even when we did reach them this year, and it’s not like we’ll suddenly get worse and everyone else better. The chance for us to reach championships next year is just as big as it was this season, if not better, and it’s not like you actually know anything about—”

Nathaniel bites back an exasperated sigh. “Contrary to popular belief I _did_ watch you play. Just not long enough for you to notice. It took two seconds and I knew enough.”

“Oh yeah?!” It sounds like a challenge, as if all the patience he’s carefully built up suddenly vanished and only left the testosterone-drive urge to prove himself stronger, but Nathaniel lacks the energy and motivation to rise to it. He’s actually tired, his whole body aches and there’s still the lingering presence of Junior in the back of his mind, clouding his senses and looming in the distance, like a thunderstorm just waiting for the chance to strike. Giving in to the provocation wouldn’t be a good idea for anyone involved, he knows that all too well.

Therefore, Nathaniel simply mutters a non-committal “Yeah,” and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. Surprisingly, the glaring stadium-lights actually help to clear his head a bit.

“You know, I almost like him,” Andrew giggles when Gordon’s only answer is another indignant growl, but the other Foxes seem as if they’d rather side with Gordon than with Andrew. At least judging by the offended whispers and enraged mutters that follow that comment, the hushed conversations and tension in the air, almost thick enough to require a knife to cut through it and making it difficult to simply _breathe_.

Strangely though, the continued animosity seems to help Kevin calm down, to get his bearings back together. Or almost, at least, because after another minute of this Kevin sighs, and Nathaniel envisions him pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he can’t believe the stupidity of the people surrounding him. He already knows what the striker is going to say before he does and somehow, the realization that he still knows Kevin so well, enough to practically read his thoughts, is jarring enough that, for a moment, there’s a spike of panic building in Nathaniel’s chest even through the fog of Junior’s numbness.

Then, like a cloudburst, a shockwave of hot-blooded anger and fear, it’s over again, because that’s when Kevin says, “Alright, out with it,” the way he always does—did—when someone doubted Nathaniel’s ability to play with the Perfect Court. It’s an admission to Nathaniel’s skills that isn’t quite a compliment, the grudging acknowledgement that he doesn’t _not_ know what he’s talking about, but Nathaniel’ll take it any day.

He grins to himself at that, but doesn’t actually bother sitting up or even directly addressing any of the Foxes. Instead, Nathaniel drawls, lazily: “Eight’s grip’s too slack, his left hand too far up. Adjust your grip and you’ll be able to throw twice as hard, let alone properly bat those balls away.

“Four relies too much on his physical strength. Widen your stance, but keep to your tiptoes and go after those trying to get around you like you actually mean it.

“Five, Six, Eight: just because the season’s over doesn’t mean you’ve got time to tear into each other. In-fighting doesn’t get anyone anywhere. All of your footwork is so sloppy I wanna cry.

“Six’s goals were lucky shots; your aim is off by about five inches. Either calculate it in or work on that fucking precision.

“Seven, you’re favoring your left side and it shows. Anyone with an eye for the game would’ve explored your weak spots five times over; you’re lucky everyone on your team seems to be too blind to see them. If anyone of you did see them and just pulled your punches because the season’s over for the moment, then you’re stupid, period. Exploring weaknesses doesn’t expose them, it just makes you aware and lets you work on correcting them. Without knowing where your weaknesses are, how can you hope to ever become better? Christ.

“As for One, you have no real control over the team. Nice that you manage to get them in line from time to time, but the moment you’re under pressure you’ll break. And I don’t think it’ll be pretty. The blame’s gonna be on you and no one will talk about what you achieved until now, only that you failed in the critical moment—but I’m sure you’re aware of that. So why don’t you do anything against that?

“Andrew, I’m not even going to start talking about you. You know fully well that you’re a disgrace to the sport, I’m certain Kevin tells you that on a daily basis. What I’m curious about is just why you don’t listen to him. Not everything he says is just stupid. Make the fucking choice and either stay or go, but what you’re doing here will only drag this team further down in the long haul. Overall: you’re a pathetic, disorganized mess and I seriously doubt Kevin is going to be able to get you anywhere near ready for when championships start. I’m impressed you even managed to get this far this year, let alone hold dear Kevin’s interest for so long. Honestly, I’m amazed. All that incompetence going on here is astonishing, especially since you dare to call yourselves a Class I Exy team.”

It by sheer will that Nathaniel isn’t breathing heavily by the end of his rant—more than once, he’s had to rein himself in from changing his tone of voice, from shouting and shaking those blind idiots for their stupidity and carelessness, from giving away just how much he envies them for the chance to play, no matter how badly they actually do it. All of what he’s said are simple facts that seem so blindingly obvious to him it’s almost boring, but it’s Exy and he can’t help the little flutter in his chest, the passion for the sport threatening to stir and wreak havoc once again.

Kevin only sighs again when Nathaniel stops talking, too used to Nathaniel’s cold professionalism to be impressed anymore. “Two seconds?” he asks in a flat tone that stands in stark contrast to the reaction of the rest of the Foxes.

Nathaniel shrugs, swallowing down his usual response. “You know me.”

 

***

 

It’s quite amusing, watching the Foxes splutter and gawk.

Indignant and offended, but bright-eyed with excitement, Matt, Dan and Nicky look up to where the Raven sits on his perch, not even deigning them with a second glance. Aaron and Seth are seething with rage, their ego wounded precariously by that tiny know-nothing. Renee smiles in that quiet, serene smile of hers that always appears when there’s an idea brewing in her clever little mind that Andrew absolutely is _not_ going to like. Wymack’s stare is so heavy and scrutinizing even Andrew can feel his skin prickle in response even though it’s not even directed at him. The Coach doesn’t say anything for the moment, though, he simply observes.

And Andrew doesn’t quite know what to think of this whole display other than the realization that _oh._ _Oh, this might actually turn out to be interesting_. For a little while, at least. It’s not like the amusement will last. After all, it never does. No, the drugs usually take care of that. The drugs and society and whatever deity out there that Andrew apparently has offended badly enough to earn himself eternal grudge.

But there’s something different about Nathaniel. Something has changed in the few hours since he’s left, something that goes beyond the careless attitude he puts on display at the moment. It’s not just a mask one puts on in order to hide fear or nervousness behind, no poker-face to distract from insecurities. This goes deeper, and it’s something Andrew thinks he knows all too well.

(In a millisecond, he shuts down that thought and locks it out, eliminating the threat before it can fully manifest, because that right here can only end disastrously.)

“Right,” Allison drawls, successfully breaking everyone out of their momentary state of whatever the hell that just was. “So, you have eyes in your head and a fucking loud mouth. That doesn’t mean you know anything about us, though, or about the game.”

That seems to be the cue for everyone to start talking at once, insults and demands and questions and Nicky’s loud _“He’s a Raven, Allison, are you stupid? Of course he knows this game!”_.

Allison smiles and throws her long ponytail over her shoulder as she turns to the backliner, so obviously delighted at being contradicted that Andrew just _knows_ what comes next. And goddamn, those people will never learn. Fractured and broken and used to being trampled upon, the Foxes will never know when to give up, especially when there’s someone lower than them, someone who might actually rise to the challenge and lose. Because winning, beating someone down who’s already weaker than you is _such_ a good feeling, isn’t it, Allison?

But Andrew doesn’t say anything, he just sighs inwardly and prepares to go find someone who can come wipe up the blood when they’re done here.

“Oh, does he?” Allison says, and the smile on her blood red lips twists enough to look almost dangerous. “Then tell me, why didn’t Riko seem to think so? Surely someone who can play as well as he talks wouldn’t be abandoned the way _he_ was. Surely Riko wouldn’t have let him get away like this, so close to the season he’d finally be able to play and show what he can do. If anything he says is actually true, Edgar Allan wouldn’t have let that player slip through their fingers I’m sure. So why is he here if that’s the case?”

And oh, Andrew would be the first one to tell you how stupid the Foxes are, but Allison might actually be onto something here, wrapping insults around a truth that has been bothering Andrew all this time, an inconsistency he didn’t quite manage to put into words himself. Riko may be as stupid and shifty and sadistic as he wants, but the one thing that doesn’t make sense is that he let Nathaniel get away like that. Nathaniel’s explanation might make sense when considered in the light of Riko, the jealous asshole, but not when you remember the fact that first and foremost, Riko is an Exy player who _has_ to be number one.

With the drugs beginning to leave his system now before it’s time for another dose, Andrew will remember to question the Raven about that, especially since he hasn’t let him out of his eye the whole time now and _look at that_. Nathaniel’s body tenses imperceptibly, and just for a millisecond, then that wrong smile crosses his face again, and it seems like that comment hit pretty close to home, too.

 _But while that amusement does last, I’m_ definitely _going to enjoy it_ , Andrew thinks, and watches the ensuing chaos, how Seth jumps at the chance to go up against the Raven, supporting his girlfriend in her accusations with just as biting words, how Renee’s smile slowly diminishes while Nathaniel’s grows, and Kevin gets frantic in a way he hasn’t been in a long while, but there’s excitement underneath that, a joy so bright Andrew has to blink in and look a second time in order to convince himself that he isn’t seeing things.

Oh. Yes.

This is definitely going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so. Next chapter is going to be fun, I told you ^^
> 
> Umm, another thing I just realized: I haven't mentioned yet what my username means and if I remember correctly, someone wanted to know it? Or maybe it was something else?  
> Anyway, if you do wonder about it: it's Swissgerman and basically means 'little fox' :D
> 
> Enjoy your week!


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this now because otherwise I'm never gonna finish it.   
> It was supposed to have more actual content than this but oh well. You'll find it in the next chapter... which will hopefully come soon.
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like this is all over the place and so are my own opinions about it. There are some parts of this chapter that I absolutely love, and then there are some that are just... *cringe*
> 
> It's a general mess, but hey, at least I'm writing.
> 
> Enjoy.

_Broken ribs and fingers_ , Wymack reminds him, _stitches that need to be removed. Abby hasn’t even checked you over yet. Forget it_.

Wymack doesn’t seem to realize that Nathaniel doesn’t like being told what to do, that he’s one of these people who’ll do the exact opposite just to spite you—at least when he has the chance to do so, when the consequences won’t be worse. Now, he’s not sure there even will be consequences at _all_ , so Nathaniel decides to take the risk, to rise to the bait that Reynolds has so beautifully laid out for him as if he couldn’t see it for the trap it is.

(He does.)

(He just choses to ignore it because, well, it’s not as if he ever took well to people underestimating and ridiculing him, as if he ever _quite_ gained all the indifference necessary to not get riled up when he catches sight of the look people get in their eyes when they consider him nothing more than a speck of dirt under their shoes, the overconfident and overbearing posture with which they treat him when they think he will allow them to trample him.)

(He gives up on the last of his restraint because things like this always succeed in making his skin itch, and he’s never been good at not scratching it, even if he risks tearing open yet another wound. Especially now that the numbness finally begins to fade, giving way to the prickling feeling of reawakening limbs that have been cut off the blood flow for too long—it’s like the rush of adrenaline when you’ve just dodged a bullet and are waiting for the next one to hit and you think it may not miss its target this time; like a survival instinct; action-reaction that will actually just go and get him killed one day, because that, this momentary reprieve, the gasp for air when anger begins to well up in him and drowns out the cries of all common sense and self-preservation, that’s when all masks fall.)

So, Nathaniel stretches his toes and then sits up, elbows resting on his knees as he turns to face Wymack in a mockery of sincerity.

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, amicably, and, before the Coach can breathe a sigh of relief, he continues, “I’ll show you just how well I know this game.”

His gaze flickers from Reynolds to Gordon to Minyard to Wilds. The only one he doesn’t look at is Kevin, and he’s the first to stir after another one of those stunned silences that makes Nathaniel question the intelligence of the Foxes even further.

This time though, the quiet doesn’t last long, is quickly filled with derisive laughter that bounces off the stadium walls, incredulous looks and doubting whispers, but they all get drowned out when Kevin jumps at the mention of Exy, which isn’t a surprise in and of itself.

What does catch Nathaniel off guard though is the almost giddy “ _I’ll show you where we keep the spare uniforms._ ” with which Kevin rushes forward, fast enough to almost trip over his own feet and enthusiastically enough to promptly shut the Foxes up. Nathaniel only just barely manages to hide his bafflement.

“Abso- _fucking_ -lutely not, Kevin. You will not bring further harm to this kid. I swear to—”

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?” Nathaniel asks, and oh, that may be Junior showing. Or maybe the Foxes’ abrasiveness is catching. “And if you think you have any right to tell me what to do then you can go fuck yourself with a cactus.”

Not only Andrew whistles lowly at that, but he’s the only one to say “Oh, I _knew_ this was gonna be fun. I wonder where you hid that potty mouth the whole week. Didn’t want Abby to find out or what?”

“Feel free to join him, asshole,” Nathaniel shoots back, but there’s no longer any fire behind the words except the automatic defensiveness. They’re just that. A perfunctory assortment of words, meant to sting and bite and hurt, because there aren’t any other weapons within easy reach to defend himself with. In this regard, Nathaniel is like a dog well trained, all Pavlovian response.

The reaction is as just ingrained as the minute flinch that shudders through his body when there’s a fast motion that he only catches out of the corner of his eye; he side-steps the blow before he even thinks about it, before he has time to realize that it’s not a hand raised to beat him, that there’s no knife or Exy racquet or, or _something_ ready to inflict pain—it’s just Kevin, who does stumble down the stairs at hearing Nathaniel’s response, and his eyebrows are so far up his forehead they almost disappear into his hairline.

The annoyed “What?!” Nathaniel snaps at him sounds enough like a bark to send a shiver down his spine. (“ _What a good dog. Seems like you’ve finally learned your lesson._ ”) His leg twitches.

Nathaniel inhales sharply and forces his muscles to relax while he counts down the seconds as he holds his breath. (One to ten), he drives out the tension in his shoulders, (eleven to twenty), lets his features assume yet another blank mask and (twenty-one to thirty) clears his thoughts. A pause, (thirty-six to forty-one), he tilts his head from side to side, getting rid of the crick in his neck, and then he slowly breathes out (though he could’ve gone to three-hundred-sixty), as he tries to works around the pain and the stupid shortness of breath that comes with broken ribs.

Nathaniel opens his eyes again and then there’s Andrew, standing just a few meters in front of him and he is, for once, just as tall as Kevin (who has managed to catch himself a couple steps down without falling on his ass). For a second, there’s eye contact, then, when Andrew doesn’t make a move to come closer, Nathaniel refocuses his attention on the task at hand.

The Velcro isn’t easy to open with only one hand, but he makes do, his motions only slightly fumbling because he does have practice at this after all, and eventually he places the carefully removed splint on the seat next to him.

Although there’s more than one heavy stare focused on him, Nathaniel takes his time to stretch his fingers, reacquainting them with movement before he even attempts to make a fist, a fastidious study of new limitations. It doesn’t matter that stretching out his hand sends pinpricks and needles and fucking knife slashes up his arm, doesn’t matter that touching each finger to his thumb hurts like a bitch, enough so to make him feel lightheaded for a moment; he’s used to the pain and he knows that he’ll grow numb to it in some time. First though, he has to reassure himself that he even still _can_ make a fist, that he’ll still be able to properly grip a pen, a knife, an Exy racquet.

“Nathaniel—” the Coach begins, and from the tone of his voice alone it’s obvious that he’ll make another attempt at talking Nathaniel into changing his mind.

Without looking up from where he’s now massaging his broken fingers to get the blood flowing properly again, heedless of the flaring pain that shoots up his arm in the process, Nathaniel echoes, “Coach,” before Wymack can launch into another tirade. He doesn’t have the patience nor the nerves to listen to that spiel all over again.

Nathaniel pauses just long enough to make a point, flicking his eyes up for a millisecond, and then he says, “Okay, look. I have a few facts for you: One, I’m not fucking breakable. Two, again, don’t assume you have any control over me, just so we’re clear. Three, five days for recovery are more than I’ve ever been allowed before, so don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing.” He swallows, but the numbness that let his body go and faded from his limbs has instead settled deeper in his mind, so the memories aren’t quite as vivid as he’d expected. They’re here, just below the surface, just out of reach, and even the thought that it has really been sixteen days and not five doesn’t seem really important. “This,” Nathaniel says, “this is nothing. Plus, it’s not like your pathetic excuse for a team would actually provide a challenge to take seriously.” _They’re not the Ravens_ , he doesn’t say.

Once again, Andrew doesn’t miss the chance to whistle appreciatively, and even Kevin looks at his shoes and chuckles dryly, muttering “Well, that’s a low blow.”

“Well, it’s true,” Nathaniel shoots back and finally stands, the pain in his fingers now a dull hum that vibrates through his veins in a way that is easily shoved to the back of his mind and forgotten about. His ribs are probably going to be the bigger problem, anyway, hurting already from his earlier run, and the movement of his upper body is seriously limited, which may prove to be a problem in the long run as it’s not something that can be avoided, no matter how badly the Foxes actually play. But it’s not like he’s ever let a little bit of discomfort stop him before, and he sure won’t do it now.

Nathaniel fully intends to shoulder his way past Andrew if he doesn’t budge to let him through, but the goalie avoids the collision in the last possible moment, side-stepping out of Nathaniel’s path, and using the opportunity to whisper; “Good luck.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. “I don’t rely on luck,” he says, the _‘unlike other people’_ heavily implied, before he follows after Kevin.

Halfway down the stairs, he turns around and whisper-shouts up at Andrew as if in afterthought, “Oh, and by the way. _Fuck you_ too. The cactus is optional.”

 

 

“These tiles are ridiculous,” Nathaniel says once they’re standing in the foyer and away from the rest of the team, successfully cutting off Kevin’s nervous stream of commentary about the stadium’s recent renovations. “They weren’t part of the original blueprints and plans though, were they?”

And there he goes, pale and wide-eyed like a frightened rabbit in the face of the predator when every way out is unreachable. The door is closed behind them, and Kevin looks at him as though he waits for Nathaniel to reveal his claws and bare his teeth, to rip his throat open and tear his heart out to go present it on a silver platter for Riko.

Nathaniel wants to laugh.

(He doesn’t.)

“I always forget how stupid you are,” he says instead, but before he can elaborate on that, the door bangs open again and Andrew’s smiling face appears in the doorframe.

“Oh no,” he says when he takes in Kevin’s state. “You started the party without me! What did he say, Kevin, hmm? Did he threaten you? Tell you how he’ll get you back to Riko? Finally take out that pretty knife he’s got in his sock?”

Kevin’s eyes don’t stray from Nathaniel’s face, burning hotly enough that even though Nathaniel has long since averted his gaze he can still feel it, and his voice is small but steady when he says “No.”

Nathaniel pointedly doesn’t flinch.

Kevin’s posture straightens as his eyes light up, resolve strengthening with an apparent realization. “ _No_. That wasn’t a threat, that was a warning, wasn’t it? You were—you’re trying to warn me, Nate–Nathaniel, aren’t you?” His voice is hopeful even though he doesn’t have any reason to be. It’s disgusting.

Still, Nathaniel nods, once, lips pressed together in a thin line, once again wondering about his own motives. Why has he let it get so far? Why has he stayed for so long? What does he hope to gain from this—any of this?

It’s as though there’s something holding him here even when he should be long gone, when he shouldn’t be more than a vague memory left in those people’s minds. Instead, he’s making himself more memorable by the second, something his mother would have killed him for, if only in a metaphorical sense. (She’d worked too hard on both of their survival to _actually_ do that, but sometimes he still could read the desire in her eyes. He could understand why she regretted having come for him in the first place, why she sometimes wished to be able to leave him behind, dead or alive. And he never knew whether he should try harder to be good or just let her do it in such moments. Mostly, he braced for the pain and waited for the moment to be over.) Again, he’s caught off guard by how distant the memories feel, even though he can recall in detail how her nails would feel on his scalp while pulling his hair, and the shape her rings would leave on his cheekbones, the exact shade of makeup he’d use to cover up the bruises afterwards. The constant ache accompanying these details is missing though, it’s dull like unsharpened knives instead, and Junior laughs in the back of his mind about what a stupid coward he is for dreading his mother when there are so many more dangerous and real threats after him, just waiting for the opportunity to catch up, the smallest mistake. And it’s not like he’s wrong.

So Nathaniel focuses back on the present, on showing the Foxes once and for all what he’s capable of, so maybe Wymack will have enough faith in his abilities to survive so that he won’t report his disappearance to the authorities when Nathaniel eventually goes missing (by tomorrow morning at the latest), that he’ll let him go without making a fuss.

“But it’s not like being aware of what exactly Riko is capable of will be enough to save you, and it won’t make the end result any easier on you. So. Don’t think I’m doing you any favors,” Nathaniel says, his voice rougher than it has any right to be. Kevin already opens his mouth, but Nathaniel doesn’t even want to know what he has to say, so he cuts him off. “Thatis isn’t why we’re here, though right? Where _do_ you keep the spare gear?”

 

***

 

Exy isn’t something Andrew usually takes an interest in. On his best days, he can tolerate it. On good days, it can be mildly amusing, when there’s a lot of yelling and cursing and childish temper tantrums involved because no one gets a ball past Andrew. Then, it’s slightly less boring than living is, so he puts up with it. On his bad days—Andrew doesn’t step a foot on court on bad days.

There aren’t a lot of good days, though, let alone best days. So most often, Andrew is on court like everyone else, just doing a lot less work than everyone else. Daily practice isn’t interesting enough to catch his attention and hold it for long, and Andrew doesn’t see the sense in putting in the effort to defend the goal when it benefits exactly no one, especially since there’s a perfectly good goalkeeper in the goal just opposite his. Most often, he doesn’t care enough to even try it, and the team’s indignation over that is much more amusing than the sport itself could ever be.

Today, though. Today, there’s a red-haired, hot-headed Raven on his court and the Foxes fall into shambles around him. It takes a moment, a tentative test shot that doesn’t quite hit the goal, then Nathaniel finds his grip and the Foxes scramble to follow.

The center of gravity slowly but surely has changed, the play is orbiting around Nathaniel Wesninski, pulled in by the desperation with which he takes to the court, by the pure skill basically oozing out of his every pore, the effortlessness and incredible force of it. And Nathaniel shamelessly takes advantage of that, darting around advancing strikers and backliners alike, putting them off balance when he disappears behind or around them, the ball suddenly gone from their grasp and in his possession and Renee can’t do anything to stop it from lighting the goal up red. Andrew doesn’t even try, having sat down on the goal line the moment Allison’s serve started the scrimmage, but he does keep track of every movement, ducking out of the way only when Nathaniel takes a shot directly at him. He doesn’t turn around to watch how the ball hits dead-center every time, doesn’t reach for it when it comes to a halt next to him, doesn’t do anything to contribute to the game other than being a silent spectator, taking note of every detail.

 

Two minutes, and it’s absolute chaos.

 

Twenty minutes, and Nathaniel Wesninski is the last one standing.

 

Nicky is the first one to give up, his curls dripping with sweat, breathing ragged as if he just ran a marathon instead of only going against Number Four of the Perfect Court. Aaron follows quickly enough, his footsteps faltering after having failed to block Nathaniel from getting through once again. Then, the Foxes hold up for a while, but it isn’t long and they tumble like dominos, some on the verge of tipping over – a pause, a gasp, a last struggle –, but in the end, none of them are able to hold up against the force of nature that is Nathaniel Wesninski on an Exy court.

Seth and Allison’s iron wills to prove Nathaniel wrong aren’t enough to hold their ground against the Raven’s skill and stamina and even though Dan resists her own exhaustion the longest, she gives up willingly when Renee falters, brave little Renee with her sweet smile and true faith, whose arms shake until her racquet goes _clatter!_ to the floor, until she trips over her own feet in a vain attempt to stop the next ball.

The women wobble off the court together, exhausted but with smiles on their faces that look so much more genuine than the one Andrew sees in the mirror every day, eyes lit up by excitement and adrenaline. They’re cheered on by Nicky and Matt until they collapse on the home benches, Dan chugging down a bottle of water as though she’s dying of thirst, all of the Foxes a mess, but every last of them looks way too excited to just have lost to a single striker.

For only a moment, when the door falls closed and drowns out the chatter and good-natured teasing, Nathaniel’s shoulders slump as he realizes that there really isn’t an opponent anymore, because of course Kevin’s too high and mighty to step a foot on the same court as the rest of them (“ _I know what Nathaniel is capable of, I don’t need to make a fool of myself just to prove a point_.”), but then he scoops up a stray ball and Andrew knows what’s coming before it does. His body moves a split-second before his brain fully catches up with it, but then he’s already standing, and his pulse echoes in his ears.

Andrew reaches out, the motion instinctive, and it’s just in time to block the ball that’s flying at his goal, fast enough to send a stray thought flashing through his mind, a ‘ _this might be something I could get used to_ ’ that’s there and gone again, roughly shoved into the very back of his mind the moment a satisfying ‘thump’ resounds within the plexiglass, but it’s left a too-vivid after-image behind and he knows, knows that the thunder’s soon to come. And he’s not going to like it.

And then his brain scatters again, the explosion of adrenaline probably having kicked up the last dregs of the meds in his blood and Andrew grins, hard enough that his cheeks hurt, as he leans back against the goal wall and begins lazily to spin his racquet, the ball safely caught in its net. Now, the goal lights up red.

With his free hand, Andrew reaches two fingers through the mask and taps his temple, giving Nathaniel yet another two-fingered salute. “Too bad. Better luck next time,” he says.

Nathaniel laughs, once, saying “fuck you” without any heat and barely out of breath, though his face is flushed from exertion and his eyes shine in a brighter blue than the laws should allow. (Andrew will have to see about that. Once he gets his degree. If it ever comes to that.)

It’s the most carefree Andrew has seen him yet, the first time Nathaniel actually looks as though he’s alive, and _oh yes_ , Andrew is going to be in big trouble very soon if he lets himself continue down this path. In the unlikely case that that boy is not a hallucination he’s going to regret not having gotten rid of him when he still had the chance.

Because now, they’ve pretty much gone to zero. If Andrew’s experiences of the last year are anything to go by, the Foxes will not want to let go of this Raven anytime soon. They’ll sooner get over their prejudices and grudges, their anger and doubt and wounded pride just because of the chance that this may tip the scale, that maybe this year, the odds will be in their favor. They’ll sink their claws into him and not let go, trying to convince Nathaniel Wesninski to stay a little longer, a year or five instead of a couple days, even if he tears them apart in the process. The Foxes are self-destructive and stubborn like that, unwilling to back down if there’s even the smallest path in the thicket that they’d be able to cut through, make bigger, so they can take a step forward, and then another, all the way to the top.

Andrew tosses the ball back at the Raven with more force than strictly necessary, sending all these distracting and disturbing thoughts with it, vainly trying to erase them from an eidetic memory, and he makes use of the startled second it takes Nathaniel to react so as to not let it smack him in the face. He crosses the court to step up to Nathaniel, close enough to make it feel like an invasion without actually breaching his personal space, and Andrew leans in close and stage-whispers “Hey, Nathaniel. You’re bleeding.”

Nathaniel blinks, once, and in that split second, all the light leeches from his eyes; they go distant before they focus on Andrew with razor-sharp attention, and the life disappears from his features, making them seems as cold as the icy blue of his eyes. There’s a tug in Andrew’s stomach that feels like regret, but regret isn’t something he knows, so he blames it on the drugs and the nausea that’ll soon kick in, and he pushes past Nathaniel without wasting another thought on that stupidly beautiful face of his.

“Oh,” he hears Nathaniel say quietly behind him before he finally exits the court.

Andrew doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of the next chapter is already written and it's FUN. Just didn't want to make you wait any longer.
> 
> But, what's bothering me right now, is that I'm somehow not quite sure whether all of my sentences really make sense... I feel like I'm the only one who understands what I want to say, and even that only sometimes. Maybe that's why proofreading always seems to take so much more time than just writing...   
> But is that just me or do you really not understand my sentences? 
> 
> Also, another (quick) question that I'm always wondering/worrying about since I'm really not sure about it myself and I never can really tell, so I’ll just ask you: do you think I manage to do the whole 'show don’t tell' thing?  
> Or do I tell too much?  
> Would help me loads, thank you!!
> 
> And finally, let me thank you again. Your comments are amazing and so, so motivating, I always feel bad when I do have the time to write and then don't. It's the push I really need sometimes. And the smile that's making everything better after a long day.
> 
> But. I'll try to get the next chapter out sometime soon (hopefully next week), but I'll participate in NaNoWriMo and try my luck in original fiction, so when there's no new chapter in November that's why.
> 
> Thank you for all your patience.   
> (I can't believe this is going on since Februar, I just realized. Crazy. This is my biggest project yet and I haven't abandoned it! Wow! That should deserve a medal.)


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Monday's been pretty shitty so far and my Tuesday isn't going to go much better, so here's a new chapter! Your kind comments never fail to cheer me up, after all :)
> 
> Plus, I kinda love this chapter? I don’t even know. It’s a wild ride. Just go with it?  
> I’m also hella unsure about it. I really like the way it turned out, as I said, but also there are moments where I just keep wondering if that’s how the characters would react at all. It’s messy and probably illogical as fuck, but anyway. Sorry for my rambling as always ^^*
> 
> Trigger warnings for homophobia, homophobic language, general knife violence, unprofessional wound treatment, panic attacks, possible Dissociative Identity Disorder and all the other stuff I forgot to mention in earlier chapters... i’m so sorry
> 
>  
> 
> It's one of my longest chapters I think, so enjoy it? I'm not sure when I'll be able to post the next.

There are eyes on him, still or again he doesn’t know, but he also doesn’t particularly care. The adrenaline has faded, and although his heart is still jumping in his chest (a vain attempt to pump enough blood through his body, blood that isn’t really there anymore after _knives and teeth and nails_ ), there’s a strange lack of fear. No lump in his throat, no shaking hands, and his mind is calm instead of tripping over itself with analyses of every shot he took, every mistake he made, desperately attempting to predict how bad the post-practice punishment is going to be. Somehow, the little time he’s spent in the Foxes’ company has been enough to reassure him at least of that, if nothing else. After all, if they actually did have the same practices and rituals the Ravens do, none of them would have such a smile on their face, and the bruises from yesterday’s practices would have long since peaked through their clothing, too numerous to be hidden, the limps not so easily ignored.

So no. He doesn’t care that they’re looking at him as he carefully leans his borrowed racquet against the court wall next to the door and takes off his gloves and helmet, tucking away one inside the other and putting the whole thing down at his feet.

And he doesn’t think twice about it when he lifts his shirt, takes the hem between his teeth so as to hold it up, and prods at the bandage on his abdomen that is, as Andrew so helpfully pointed out, soaked through with blood. Now that he isn’t playing anymore, the various aches begin to catch up with him—as always, he can’t outrun them forever.

His fingers eventually betray him when he tries to peel off the bandage though; his whole hand spasms as a shockwave of pain shoots up his arm and he clenches his teeth to hold back a grunt, and then he shakes it out before trying again, this time with thumb and index finger alone.

He manages it eventually, and sure enough, some of the stitches have ripped, and by now he also feels the trail of blood that’s running down his thigh, the way every motion hurts when he twists his upper body just so, bruised ribs and blackened fingerprints on his hips, and unlike that time in Abby’s bathroom, the clinical detachment with which he examines his injuries feels much more stable and impenetrable now that there are eyes on him, now that he has Junior running commentary in the back of his mind still, muffled but not entirely gone quite yet.

Nevertheless, Nathaniel grimaces a little when he shifts his weight, trying to give himself better access to the wound on his stomach so he can just take out the stitches altogether, deeming it a lost cause. It’s close enough to Abby’s predetermined removing-date anyway, and honestly, he’s had worse. He’ll survive.

He always does. Somehow.

It is tricky, though, getting a good grip on the thread with fingers that are slick with blood, and he hesitates to just wipe them off on the borrowed shorts for some reason.

There’s someone in front of him before he quite has the chance to realize it, and they slap his hand away with an angry huff, shoving a first aid kit into his chest before stumping off again, abrupt enough that Nathaniel’s flinch comes absurdly delayed.

He then becomes suddenly aware of the dead-silence in the stadium, of the weight of the stares that has gotten so much heavier in the last couple of minutes, Minyard walking away from him, waving his hands in cutting gestures when Hemmick gapes at him instead, and eventually he disappears in the direction of the locker rooms without a word to anyone.

“Happy now, Seth?” Kevin says into the thick silence, effectively startling everyone out of that strange state of shock that even Nathaniel has fallen into. “He’s not even a striker, and he outplayed every single one of you by lengths. Got anything to say to that?”

Not only Gordon turns to incredulously stare at Kevin at that, but some seem to have a different motive in mind than the disbelieving denial with which the striker splutters now. No, it’s Wilds who says, “Honestly? Are you fucking serious? You see that—that—” she agitatedly waves her hands at Nathaniel, “—and that’s all you have to say? Didn’t you say you were like, friends or something?”

“What about him?” Kevin asks, squinting as he follows her gestures as if that’d help him see something he didn’t before.

Oh, now Wilds looks angry. Suddenly Nathaniel can see how, maybe, that woman actually deserves her title, because there’s an energy to her that hasn’t been there before, a promise of fierceness. The impression is ruined when she speaks again, though. “His fucking injuries maybe? Like, why the fuck did you let him play like this, that’s—”

“I think I made my point about what I think of people who think they can tell me what to do.”

Wilds’ gaze lands on Nathaniel at that, but it doesn’t stay there for long. She looks strangely uncomfortable now. “I’m just saying…” She doesn’t continue. { _What a smart girl_.} _Shut your trap_ , Nathaniel thinks, but he doesn’t actually contradict Junior.

“—we don’t want to see you hurt,” Boyd adds, coming to his girlfriend’s rescue, the knight in sweaty sports gear. { _Not so smart boy. Can we cut him?}_

Nathaniel scoffs, and then sucks in a sharp breath because holy fuck, that _hurts_. “Yeah, right. Because you care about me so much. How could I have missed it?” He grins, and only lets it drop when Boyd cowers satisfyingly, averting his gaze. “Really. Why are you like this? I thought you made pretty fucking clear what you think of me earlier, so … just stick to that.” He lets that statement settle for a moment, without taking his eyes from Foxes.

Then, Nathaniel turns his attention to the first aid kit in his hands and takes stock of what it contains. It’s obviously the team’s, containing more cooling and/or warming cream than anything else, but it’s sufficient. He manages to find a small pair of tweezers and scissors, two gauze bandage rolls, intending one of them to clean up the blood and the other to wrap the wound afterwards, and then, as an afterthought, he also takes out the little bottle of disinfectant, because why the hell not, if he already has the opportunity? It also doesn’t hurt that the more care he takes the less likely Abby is going to fuss over him. Probably. Hopefully.

Nathaniel rolls out one of the bandages, carefully wiping away first the blood that’s already dribbled down his stomach, a drying mess, and only then goes about cleaning the wound. It’s sensitive, the edges reddened where the stitches have ripped, but now that he isn’t moving much any longer it’s stopped bleeding at least. It still hurts like a motherfucker, but hey, he’s used to it.

At least he knows how to do this. Thus, he takes the tweezers into his uninjured hand, biting down on the balled-up hem of his shirt so as to muffle all sounds he might make, something as ingrained as everything else he knows about pain, and then he gets to work. It’s three out of seven stitches that are already mostly out, so he only needs to cut through the rest of them with scissors that probably were rather intended for cropping adhesive plaster to the right size than actually doing the hard, exact work.

By the time that’s done, his hand is shaking again, and the weight of the stares seems to have returned tenfold. It’s still strangely quiet, though, so it’s not like Nathaniel is about to complain.

He breathes deeply through his nose and waits for the trembling to stop, then he readjusts his grip on the tweezers and makes use of the basically tangible tension in the air, turns it into concentration. Nathaniel doesn’t let himself make a single sound until all the stitches are removed, even when they catch on skin and pull, when he begins bleeding again after the third one. He simply forces his breathing to slow even more and takes the time to press the cloth against the wound until he can see the stitches again.

On the whole, it doesn’t take very long, a couple minutes maybe. It still feels like an eternity, as it always does. But then it’s done and Nathaniel soaks the last clean part of the bandage in disinfectant, pressing it against his stomach with enough force to feel the pain in every last one of his cells as he bends down to retrieve the waterproof wound dressing he thinks he’s spotted earlier, and that’s when someone finally shows a reaction.

“Oh my god, Nathaniel, honey,” Hemmick sighs, drawn out, and when Nathaniel looks up at that, startled, there’s an uncharacteristically pained expression on the backliner’s face. “You’re a mess. An admittedly hot mess, but goddamn, you’re a mess.”

Nathaniel stares at him, forgets to breathe.

“That’s a compliment!” Hemmick hurries to add, but Minyard choses that moment to appear from the locker rooms with a water bottle in hand and as soon as he takes in the scene, apparently having caught the tail end of his cousin’s words, he says, “No, it’s not.”

“You don’t know anything, grumpy. That’s how just you flirt in gay.” Hemmick’s voice lacks the intonation that usually tips Nathaniel off, but still, something about the words, about the very obvious way in which he eyes up Nathaniel’s body makes him freeze mid-motion. He listens, breathes again, carefully, painstakingly.

“I’m most definitely not gay and even I can tell that’s not true”, Aaron replies, rolling his eyes, and apparently that’s a challenge, because now Hemmick closes in on Nathaniel, his gait pointedly slow and seductive and that—that elicits a full-body shudder but there’s nothing Nathaniel can do. His whole body has frozen up and he isn’t able to move a single muscle, isn’t able to _scream and run and fight back_ like he wants to and instead goes compliant, because this is the way it will hurt the least, because he already feels like a single pulsating source of agony, he doesn’t need more, but there’s nothing he can _do_ , and—

A hand on his right shoulder, it draws him in, and then there’s a tanned arm wrapping around him all the way from his right to his left shoulder and another’s body heat _so_ _close_ and he’s waiting for the pain, he’s bracing for it, but still, his breathing speeds up, grows ragged, and his heartbeat echoes in his ears loudly enough to give him a headache. Oh fuck no, not again, he’s just—

Junior laughs in the back of his mind and _that’s_ when Nathaniel flinches.

Hemmick is still talking, and he laughs too when he feels Nathaniel’s reaction against his side, his eyes sparkling with mischief, but Nathaniel can only see maliciousness and the hunger that’s in all the men’s eyes when they—

“Get your fucking hands off him.”

“What? No, Andrew, I’m not—”

A second, then the air clears somehow. No more heavy weight pressing in too close, no other person’s breath too close to his own face and the oxygen finally seems reachable again.

He stumbles. Catches himself. On his bad hand. He bites back a sob. What would have been a sob if he thought he’d still be able to cry. He doesn’t think so. Junior thinks it might be interesting to see. What it would take to make him cry.

Nathaniel tastes the bile rising to the back of his throat, and the acidity of it is enough to snap him back into reality, where he holds the tweezers like a weapon and the disinfectant is dribbling onto the floor, the cap popped off. Now, the pain that rolls through him in waves comes from the amount of pressure he’s putting against his wound, and it’s nauseating but at least he hasn’t let go of the bandages.

It takes a second or two to realize that the harsh pants he hears are his own, and it takes even longer than that until his vision clears and his hearing comes back properly, no more muffled sounds and blurry surroundings.

And then he has to blink again, and again. There’s Andrew, and there’s the glint of a brandished knife, and it’s not pointed at him. He blinks, swallows. His tongue feels fuzzy and he wonders if maybe he’s hallucinating, but then there’s Wymack, approaching Andrew as if he’s a wild animal, and it’s apparently not only Nathaniel who sees the way Andrew has his cousin pressed against the court walls, his jersey fisted in one hand, putting pressure on his windpipe, and the other holds the knife. If Hemmick so much as breathes wrong right now, Andrew would cut his lungs to ribbons, any and all consequences be damned.

“Andrew,” Wymack says, and the soothing tone of his voice sounds all wrong. “That’s enough.”

Nathaniel’s breathing has steadied enough that he isn’t feeling quite so lightheaded anymore, but that only serves to send his thoughts racing. He shoves away all questions about why Andrew is doing this, whether he’d be able to grieve at his cousin’s funeral, and _why the fuck is Andrew doing this_ , focuses on all the things he’s so familiar with in this situation, on finding a way to discharge the tension without leading to causalities like Wymack’s apparent approach surely would. He doesn’t need another death resting on his shoulders, and doing this at least helps getting rid of the daunting memories.

“Here, Coach,” Nathaniel says, as uncaring as he can, and if his voice is a little hoarse, well, no one is saying anything. He gestures at his stomach with his free hand. “They’re removed, see. Does that mean I get to play again?”

Wymack startles and when he looks over at him, there’s something like a grin curving his lips. It’s still too much a grimace for Nathaniel to be completely sure, though. “Fuck,” the Coach then says, suddenly, and he pales, running a hand through his hair. “Abby is going to kill me.”

There’s laughter coming from the Foxes at that, but it doesn’t sound quite real. Andrew isn’t relaxing either, talking rapidly to Hemmick in quiet German who just nods weakly every now and then, his body rigid, forehead glistening with sweat.

So simply diverting the attention won’t work then. Nathaniel needs a distraction, something more important to Andrew than Hemmick. Kevin seems like the obvious choice, here, but Nathaniel can’t think of a way to make Andrew care right at the moment, when his own memories about strange hands and unwanted touches surely linger all too close under the surface, something he’s sure nobody knows of, because Andrew would never expose himself like this of his own volition.

So Nathaniel has to turn the game around, pull the blame on himself and turn Hemmick back into the person Andrew needs to protect as opposed to the one others need to be protected from.

It’s a good thing Nathaniel has always been a somewhat talented actor and a terrific liar. “Wait,” he says, as if in sudden realization. “Wait. Let’s rewind a moment here. You’re _gay_?”

This time, Gordon is the only one to laugh while Hemmick flinches away, apparently forgetting all about the knife for a second, but it doesn’t matter because in a blink it has vanished back under Andrew’s armbands and the threat is neutralized for the moment. Now, though, Nathaniel has to deal with a whole other kind of backlash.

“Gay like a fucking rainbow unicorn. Problem?” It took a moment, but Hemmick seems to have caught himself and now grins at Nathaniel with an entirely too-wide smile. He can’t hide the pained wrinkles around his eyes, though, and it doesn’t escape Nathaniel’s attention that the man suddenly seems an inch or two smaller, shoulders hunched, position passively defensive. He also doesn’t miss that Andrew seems to notice the same things about his cousin, though his own reaction is much better concealed. ( _He almost killed four men for attacking his cousin. Aren’t you curious what he’d do if something were to happen to his twin? Or if one of them ended up dead? What a loss. Surely Kevin would be all alone then, surely he’d want to come back_.)

Nathaniel doesn’t let his thoughts distract him from the situation at hand, but even if, Junior doesn’t let him pause for longer than a second, and the “ _Yes!_ ” feels like it’s getting ripped from his lips, it comes out so vehemently.

“Great. Fucking great.” Now, that’s Wymack, and he sounds absolutely exhausted. “What a perfect mixture of Andrew and Seth. How fun. Not. Listen up, kid, I know what I said about second chances, but if you want to start some homophobic shit right now you can back the fuck off. Not in my stadium.”

“It’s not natural, Coach. Things, abominations, like this shouldn’t exist. It’s pure and simple sin and fucking disgusting. You should just fucking hang them all by their balls and stone them to death.” To Nathaniel’s ears it sounds like something memorized, monotonous and without any meaning, but he’s sure the others will be fooled. He’s reciting his father’s words, can hear his voice in the back of his mind as if he were actually here because these words are just what Nathan would have said. Nathaniel—Junior—doesn’t know just how often he’s heard the screams, how many times he’s walked in on his father—

Thankfully, he doesn’t get to finish that train of thought.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” resounds through the stadium like an echo, repeated by a different voice each time. Even Walker looks more like a Shields than a Walker right now.

Well, that’s one way to get rid of their fussing and sympathy. He’ll have to remember that trick.

Only Gordon seems to agree with Nathan(iel), his grin looking out of place on his face, though it’s absolutely delighted. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along!” he says, and Nathaniel has to swallow against the bile rising in his throat. There’s goose bumps travelling up and down his arms and back.

Instead of paying further attention to any of the Foxes, (because anything is better than listening to them curse him, than the defensiveness and anger that practically radiates off them in waves, better than the small, small voice of Abram that mourns the fact that he’ll never get to have something like this, people at his back that won’t use the first opportunity to stab it,) he presses his hand tighter against his wound and _that’s_ a pain he knows how to deal with.

Where was he?

The plaster, right. It’s a bit crumpled now, but he should be able to make do with it. It’s not like he’s used to anything better. Nathaniel pries off the foil with his teeth, carefully pressing the plaster down in the right spot so it actually covers most of his wound and then proceeds with the other roll of bandage. It doesn’t matter that it only stays white for like five seconds before various scrapes on his torso bleed through, because that’s just how it is.

Judging from the almost-shouting match between Gordon and the rest of the team that’s going on now, he thinks the Foxes might actually like to see him suffer right now. He wouldn’t hold it against them. How could he?

He does like knowing that his plan worked though, that even though Hemmick’s feelings might be a little hurt, he’s still alive. No more unnecessary deaths. That’s all Nathaniel asks for. Because while he does want to continue living, he doesn’t think he’ll actually make it with yet another death on his hands. He’s not like his mother in that regard; he’s always cared too much about the people that got in their and his father’s way, always wondered whether they’d had a life, children, partners, or even a dog before Nathaniel came and caused it all to go to hell. He still remembers the elderly neighbor and his six black cats whose apartment got blown up because Mary accidentally on purpose wrote down the wrong apartment number on her job application; remembers his Austrian classmate, Julian, who got run over because he tried to come after Nathaniel when he left school in a hurry, forgetting all about his ‘homework’; remembers the empty stares of the police men and the Butcher’s minions alike, their lifeless bodies; the wrong job, wrong place, wrong time. It all comes down to one common denominator, and that’s Nathaniel.

So. No thanks. He’s got enough nightmares as it is. (Junior just laughs at him and he sounds like their mother when he says { _you’re weak. There’s no room for weaknesses if you want to live_ }.) Nathaniel is tempted to argue back that _this wasn’t a life they’d led_ , but he really shouldn’t start talking to himself in his head in a situation like this. It’s not particularly helpful.

Andrew has a hand wrapped around Gordon’s throat when Nathaniel looks up again, and somehow he’s not surprised. The only thing that’s mildly curious is that Gordon is the one getting threatened instead of Nathaniel himself. He isn’t sure if he’d actually regret it to have indirectly caused Gordon’s death, but it’s probably wiser to not inadvertetly trigger a police investigation while he’s here.

Nathaniel straightens out his shirt before he says Andrew’s name and then wonders out loud: “Is that your slow attempt at suicide or do you actually have sheathes built into those?”

Andrew pauses, turning his head to look at Nathaniel, but he doesn’t take his hand away from where it’s holding yet another knife against Gordon’s sternum. “Yes,” he says.

Nathaniel nods, accepting that as the non-answer it is. At least the distraction seems to work. For now. “That’s not the one you tried to cut Hemmick with. How many knives do you carry?”

The knife in question flicks through the air faster than normal people’s eyes would be able to trace, fast enough that Gordon flinches with an unmanly shriek, as Andrew tosses it up and steps away from the striker, completely nonchalant now. “Enough.” He catches it on its way down and casually puts it away again. Several Foxes are gaping at Andrew and Nathaniel by turns. Kevin’s body language changes as though he wants to say something, but he reels back in the last moment, a look settling on his face that Nathaniel hasn’t seen there often.

Nathaniel waits a beat, then, because he’s curious against better knowledge, because he’s already damned himself by stepping a foot on the court in the first place (he should have known better), he asks: “What happens when a referee catches you with a weapon on the court?”

He doesn’t get an answer because Andrew only laughs and Wymack mutters loudly enough to be heard by everyone that “ _he better not be caught_ ” as if he knows about this and _that’s_ interesting. Riko would have a field day if he knew about any of this—Nathaniel grimaces involuntarily, breath caught in his throat once again. This is really starting to piss him off. It’s only gotten worse since he got away because now, there’s always a “ _what if_ ” in the back of his mind, there are no more rules he knows to follow, and at times, the world seems so huge it frightens him.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Reynolds says, then, and Gordon nods. “All of you.”

“Tell me something I didn’t know,” Andrew says, and Gordon bares his teeth at him, hand coming up to rub first at his throat and then his chest and he tries to back away without being obvious about it.

“Be nice to each other,” Walker says, and Gordon rolls his eyes. “That’s a thing some people are capable of, you know? Bet you didn’t know that.”

“You wound me, Renee,” Andrew says, overdramatically, and finally the tension mostly bleeds out of his stance and Nathaniel can breathe a little easier. Why the goalkeepers seem to trust each other, he doesn’t understand, but as long as it will prevent any more knife attacks he doesn’t care to.

Boyd still stares at Nathaniel as though he’s an attraction at the zoo, or maybe an alien. Nathaniel’s never seen either so he can’t quite tell. Instead, he just stares back. A moment or two, then Boyd says, “Are you okay?” and that seems to be enough to pull the general attention back to Nathaniel.

“I’m fine.”

Kevin winces and Minyard snorts. “Yes of course,” he says. “I’ve seen corpses with more blood and less holes in them than you, but you’re fine. Really, it’s a wonder you’re still standing.”

Nathaniel smiles. “And that’s why you shouldn’t underestimate me.”

“Let’s do a resume then, shall we?” Gordon asks, and when that only earns raised eyebrows, he elaborates. “He’s a Raven. Four. A mouthy little shit with either too much self-esteem or too little survival instinct. He’s though as fuck. Doesn’t like faggots. He’s passable on court. I reevaluate my earlier opinion. I think we should recruit him.”

There’s silence.

Then, Wilds recovers, shaking her head in disbelief, but her grin is rueful when she says “I can’t believe you included homophobia as one of his good traits, and I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you’re right. He does have the kind of spirit we need.”

“Plus,” Reynolds adds, “it looks like he can control the monster. Have you seen how he backed off just like that, because Nathaniel asked a question?” She turns to Nathaniel, addressing him alone. “How did you do it? You need to tell us the trick. Did you put a collar on him? Are you blackmailing him? I bet there’s a lot of things to blackmail the monster with. Come on, don’t stand there like a silent statue, you’ve done that long enough. Give us some answers. We’ve known him for much longer and none of us are even able to make him move an inch in goal if it’s not Coach or Kevin.”

Nathaniel has to bite down on his tongue hard at that, and he isn’t the only one that tenses up at her implications. Andrew’s stare narrows down on her too, before he turns his head to watch Nathaniel’s reaction instead. He doesn’t have much time to school his features before Gordon comes sauntering over, all loose stance secretive grin as if they’re suddenly friends. He goes to sling an arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders, the bro-version of what Hemmick attempted only minutes earlier, but this time Nathaniel’s reaction is an entirely different one, because _now_ , his instincts finally manage to kick in and take over.

The ‘ _He’s not that kind of threat_ ’ that plays in a loop in the back of his mind is the one things that prevents him from locking up, and ‘ _he won’t touch me_ ’ is what lets him move; what makes him duck away under Gordon’s arm, stooping down low in the same fluid motion so he can easily reach into his sock, before he whirls around and stands back up, and then it doesn’t take much more than one forceful push to slam Gordon’s back against the court wall. A solid thump echoes within the stadium. The scalpel digs into the soft skin of Gordon’s thigh, the femoral artery just inches away, with just enough pressure to threaten to break the skin at the slightest movement, and Nathaniel’s thumb lies on the larynx where it’s the most painful and he promptly cuts off Gordon’s airflow when the striker tries to speak.

“You won’t. Lay. A hand. On me. Understood?” Nathaniel talks in a low voice, purposefully slow, so that not only Gordon will get his point. “Or else you’ll lose it.”

Gordon nods weakly and Nathaniel pushes away from him, unable to keep close much longer.

“I’m done here,” he says. “Going back to Abby’s.”

“Wow,” Gordon says, in a hushed voice. “Why do I begin to like him? Also, why is this the second time today I’ve gotten threatened by someone with a knife and no one even attempted to call the police. In what kind of world do we live?”

“Welcome to America,” Hemmick says, seeming to have found back to his cheery nature, but with an attitude that just screams _fuck you_. “Also, if you don’t like a little knife-play, maybe you should just stop being so annoying. And stay out of the BDSM-scene.” He pauses. “Wow. I could’ve sworn you and Allison were into that kind of shit, what with the way you’re always at each other’s throat when you’re having an off-day. That really wasn’t some kind of weird kinky foreplay?”

Wymack groans, and the color of his and Kevin’s face finally match, like the true father and son they are, red as tomatoes. “We really should start taping your mouth shut, Hemmick. We’d all be better off for it.”

“Hey! He was the one who started it. You start talking homophobic hetero-ass shit, I start shit-talking you and spreading rumors you’ll never get rid of. That’s just a fair and square deal.”

Immediately Gordon stops choking on his embarrassment and swivels around to point at Nathaniel, who’s putting tweezers and scissors back to where he found them, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the bloody bandage. On one hand, he really doesn’t care for it and debates just leaving it here, on the other hand, that’s a really bad idea. Blood contains DNA, DNA will get him identified one way or another and then he’ll have either the Moriyamas or his father’s men or both hot on his heels. In the end, he goes with wrapping it around his upper leg that’s still bleeding anyway so he may as well make use of it, and he barely even registers Gordon’s outraged “ _He_ started it! For once, it wasn’t me! I was just going with it.”

“… Even I fail to see how that’s supposed to make it any better, honey,” Reynolds says, and _now_ Gordon looks truly pissed off, though Nathaniel doesn’t sense the usual air of imminent violence that typically comes with that expression on people’s faces. Gordon clenches his teeth and makes a fist so tight his knuckles turn white, but he doesn’t let that rage seep outwards. Not yet at least. Nathaniel isn’t quite within his reaching distance, so.

Minyard sighs. “What does it even matter? Every single one of you is an asshole, it doesn’t really change anything if they’re also being homophobic while at it or not.” He shares a look with Walker, shrugs unapologetically, and she doesn’t even try to deny it.

Wymack pinches the bridge of his nose and now he looks like _he’s_ the one who’s got several stab wounds, broken ribs and fingers. “ _All of you_ are fucking hopeless. I can’t believe this is my life. What am I being punished for? It’d be so much easier if I just gave up and chucked you out on the streets. So why don’t I finally go through with it?”

“Because deep inside, you still love us?” Hemmick tries, half-heartedly, and the Coach just drags his hand down his face and lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan and a snort of amusement.

“Yeah, sure. Come on, just get out of my face already. You lot stink up the whole stadium. I want all of you back in the lounge once you’ve showered, and we’ll discuss this again, like proper adults this time now that you’ve let out all of your childish pettiness. In the meanwhile, I’ll order the pizza. Same as usual?”

It takes a few moments, but then there’s a chorus of ‘ _yes, Coach’es_ and the team scatters. Minyard is the only one who physically approaches Nathaniel instead of just giving him the side-eye, and it’s only long and close enough for him to toss the water bottle at Nathaniel and say “Drink this. You’ll need to stay hydrated, or Abby isn’t only going to bitch at Coach.”

He disappears after the others into the foyer, leaving Nathaniel alone with Wymack, and that’s just—no.

Nathaniel hears the Coach inhale and open his mouth, probably to say something, scold or shout, but Nathaniel isn’t having it. He’s already setting the first aid kit down on the home bench, slowly backing away from Wymack, and he says “Not now,” embarrassingly pleadingly before the older man even utters a word. Now just a quick detour to the stairs to fetch his splint, and then Nathaniel is out of there, the door swinging closed behind him. Afterwards, he pauses just long enough to dig out the duffle bag from where he’s hid it earlier, and then he’s gone, first lightly jogging before slowly picking up pace as he makes his way back to Abby’s house, following the mental map he’s made on the drive to the stadium this morning.

His whole body screams in agony, a chorus of pain and exhaustion and crawling numbness, but at least he’s moving, he’s alive and free, and—that’s when he notices the black car following him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to put Junior's 'thoughts' in curly brackets, in case that wasn't clear. I'm very aware of the fact that this probably isn't a correct way of portraying DID or anything similar for that matter, but it just... fit. I think. I'm waaay out of my league here, honestly, but oh well... IDK. 
> 
> Also, please don’t hate me???


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the past and present starts catching up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reinstate my plead from the last Chapter's End Notes: please don't hate me?  
> (for this chapter, for the long wait, for everything that's going to follow...)
> 
> It's probably overdramatic and really shitty, but hey, it's been a year and I haven't completely abandoned this yet, so yay me. This is the longest I've ever written on anything, I think. And though I've really been slacking these past few months I hope I manage to get my fingers moving again, because I really would like to finish this story. It'd be the first one to have an END written underneath it. But oh well. I'm rambling.   
> Also, if any one of you would like to be my beta reader (point out things that really don't make sense or my grammar mistakes that always escape me somehow) and regularly kick me in the ass to go write, then you'd be so very, very welcome. Because my motivation has decided to go deep sea diving and will probably never come back up. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to take this chance and that all of you once again, for your support and the wonderful comments, I've just reread some of them and I really think I don't appreciate you enough. It's an incredible feeling.   
> (It's been a year since I started this fic and probably for the first time I have an idea what's going to happen now and where this is going; now the only problem is for me to just fucking write it.)  
> I do hope to update every month, at least, though. We'll see how that goes :)
> 
>  
> 
> Now, enjoy this chapter, even though it's pretty directionless and painful ..
> 
>  
> 
> TW for torture and knives, though it's not too graphic this time, blood and vomiting, and just general nastiness. Though I think if you've stuck around for so long you're probably used to that kind of stuff from me.

“Where is he?” 

And isn’t that interesting? Kevin stands there in the middle of the lounge, some shampoo suds still clinging to his hair, street clothes stained with wet patches where he lacked the patience to dry off properly, and still his breath is going a little too fast to only come from the jog down the hallway. 

“Kevin, your obsession is showing,” Andrew says, because Kevin does look like a crazy man right now, even though Andrew usually doesn’t make a habit of stating the obvious. 

Wymack looks up from where he’s thumbing through an Exy magazine, and when he sees the look on Kevin’s face he doesn’t even have to ask whom he’s talking about. He sighs. “He left. About ten minutes ago.” 

Now, Kevin looks frantic and he can’t stand still anymore. His foot is tapping on the floor when he isn’t walking in circles, and he’s constantly running a hand through his hair, uncaring about how he gets everything wet in the process. “What? No, Coach, he can’t—How could you have let him leave? You know—”

“Relax. He just went back to Abby’s. No harm done in that. Or not much, at least.”

The short bark of laughter that escapes Kevin at that is purely sarcastic. “He ‘just went back to Abby’s’? And you believed him just like that?”

Kevin sits down on the couch next to Andrew with enough force to make Andrew’s body bounce a little. “Oh God, what if…” He groans, muttering something unintelligible. Then: “I need a drink. Seriously, Coach, I need a drink.”

The expected protest stays absent. Instead, Wymack just leans back in his chair and sighs. “Yeah, kiddo, me too. Me too.”

Andrew considers saying something to that, but he’s feeling faintly dizzy and severely nauseous, his next dose of medication overdue, but he can’t give in to that right now. He needs to be coherent for at least another half an hour, so he just bites back on everything, saving energy, and snags up Coach’s abandoned magazine. If he concentrates hard enough on steadily ripping it apart then maybe he won’t throw up all over the table, where the pizza is still steaming. 

 

There’s a small pile of carefully ripped-out sentences that all contain the word ‘Exy’ laid out next to Andrew by the time the others start trickling it, and Andrew fully intends to burn every single paper-strip that mentions the damned word by the time they’re finished here. It’s a small thing to look forward to, but it’s one thing more than there is most days. 

None of his teammates seem to have wasted too much time in the showers, rushed by either an intense curiosity about that fugitive Raven or by the promise of pizza, and Andrew is content to dedicate himself to his task and quietly observe everything else while at it. None of the Foxes comment on what he’s doing, though he does get more than one strange look. He just looks at them blankly and they don’t even think to bother him. That’s nice.

As much as he can concentrate on it, that is. Which, as it turns out, isn’t too much.

His attention starts drifting, either hyper-focussed on his tearing, the movement of his fingers and the texture of the paper, or staring into space, almost-but-not-quite overwhelmed by the noise of his teammates, the dull hum of the ventilation in the background, or flitting from human to human, catching snatches of sentences, stills of faces, mouths opening and eyes squeezing shut mid-motion without coming entirely into focus, or stretches of nothing in-between. 

He swallows, pauses, breathes. The nausea’s more insistent now, pressing up against his throat, encouraged by watching his teammates eat, by the memories of stitches and blood and a quiet ‘ _Oh_ ’ that his stupid mind seems intent on dragging up; blue, blue eyes and chapped lips, a shock of curly hair and—

Andrew scowls to himself, gathers up his shredded magazine and crumples the paper-strips in his fist. 

He looks up. Kevin’s neck is red, as are the tips of his ears and his cheeks. Andrew thinks he might have been screaming. Allison looks similarly agitated, her eyes narrowed to slits and glare turned on full-force, although, surprisingly, Seth seems remarkably relaxed where he’s hanging in his chair next to his girlfriend, apparently uncaring now about the outcome of this argument. Andrew lifts an eyebrow, thinks back to the confrontation earlier, Seth’s reaction to it, the way he looked differently at Nathaniel afterwards, and isn’t so surprised anymore. It makes sense, in a way. Maybe. He’ll have to think it over again when the world stops being blurry at the edges, and so he shoves the thought into the back of his mind and only lets his gaze sweep over the rest of the Foxes fleetingly, just long enough to make sure that his lot is accounted for and uninjured, that his lack of attention hasn’t hurt anyone. 

When it’s established that Aaron’s bored, staring numbly into his phone, and Nicky’s still wolfing down pizza, Andrew drawls, “So what’s the verdict now? Does the little birdie stay or does he go?”

There’s silence now, finally, though it does little to clear Andrew’s head. Then, Dan swallows, looks at each of her Foxes (at least the ones who followed the conversation and aren’t too drunk or cowardly to meet her eyes), and she says, “We’ll give him a chance. What he does with it depends on him,” as though it’s as simple as that. 

Andrew nods sagely. “I’m proud of you. Finally learned some common sense—or at least a semblance of it. We’ll see how it goes.” He pauses, turns to the drunken, but relieved, mess of a striker that sits beside him. When he doesn’t immediately react, he prompts, “Kevin.”

“What? Oh. Here.” He’s not sober enough to be able to take out the proper dose, so he just hands Andrew the entire pill bottle. Andrew sighs, having trouble himself to keep his fingers steady, shake out a pill or two, careful, _careful_ not to take too much, not to give into the temptation that always lures at the back of his mind, a whisper he can ignore easily enough usually, but it’s been getting increasingly harder lately, ever since a certain Raven arrived and started dredging up memories Andrew could gladly do without, at least during his waking hours. 

He shakes his head to dispel the thoughts, slowly breathes out to hold back the nausea, breathes in again, swallows the pills, and closes his eyes to just pretend for a moment that this whole day wasn’t a great big catastrophe, just setting the scene for the storm that he feels coming up at the horizon, feels in his bones, in the way Kevin’s barely hanging on, in the fact that the Ravens are a public lot, with resources that go beyond the normal college sport funding, and something tells him that the clouds he can see brewing in this very close future are just the tip of the iceberg, if you want to start mixing your metaphors. This is just the start of a fight Andrew isn’t sure he’ll be able to win, but it’s not as though that has ever stopped him before. 

So he doesn’t let it stop him. 

He smiles brightly and listens as the Foxes start talking tactics almost immediately, as they try to work out plays in which Nathaniel Wesninski will best benefit them, as they make plans for a rigid training-regimen that Kevin will have to work through with Nathaniel during the summer, when all the others are off enjoying their holiday and only the Monsters remain. 

Andrew smiles and he’s _floating_. 

Trouble will catch up with them soon enough, but he really can’t bring himself to care right now. 

 

***

 

Nathaniel’s mouth runs dry. He swallows. Tries not to panic. It’s harder than expected. 

He doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t go faster. He curses himself for not familiarizing himself with the area before going out running; he doesn’t know where the short cuts are, where to go in order to lose his trail. And he doesn’t think he can risk getting lost; not in his current state, and especially not knowing who exactly it is that’s following him. 

He really should have known better. Now it’s too late for regrets, too late for hope. At least the Foxes won’t miss him, not really. And there’s nobody else, after all. 

 

In the end, there’s not much of a fight. 

A cocked pistol, a young mother with her child who would have been right in the line of fire, Lola’s red-lipped grin, and Nathaniel goes almost willingly. 

Almost. 

 

At least until the moment when they’re alone, and then all hell breaks loose. 

Nathaniel fights and bites and claws, he tries to slip out of Lola’s grip and kick Romero where the sun doesn’t shine, tries to scream and maybe get the mother to call the police after all, to get his hands on his scalpel and cut open Jackson’s stomach, but it’s a futile fight and he knows it. 

All too soon the pain overwhelms him, old and new, remembered and memorized and so very _real_. 

 

Things get a little hazy after that; it’s pain and questions and threats, Lola’s voice and Lola’s lips and Lola’s hands, one nightmare closely followed after the other until—

“Your daddy really isn’t happy with you, Junior.”

Nathaniel can’t move a muscle and even Junior’s presence at he back of his mind seems to have evaporated, there’s no snark and no strength left in him. He feels naked, his skin peeled back (partly literally), and so fucking exhausted. 

“But you’re lucky, my boy,” Lola continues, and doesn’t look all that pleased about it. It gives Nathaniel hope—for a second at least, until yet another smile splits her lips, until yet another fire-hot line is being drawn across his skin, and Nathaniel has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. “The little pet Raven was to one who informed Daddy Dearest of your escape, and while he wanted you found he doesn’t want you killed. It’s really too bad that the little bastard has so much of a say here. I really would have enjoyed cutting you up and scattering your body parts all over the country—though I’m sure Nathan would have liked to see to you first. Too bad that he’s currently unavailable. But,” Lola adds cheerfully, “just because I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can’t maim you. You don’t need to be able to walk in order to be alive, do you?”

“ _No_ ,” the word comes punched out of Nathaniel’s chest with a strength behind it he hasn’t known he still possessed. The fear that now has him in its grip is pure and unadulterated and instead of paralyzing him completely, it kicks off his survival instincts and his mind flies into overdrive, trying to find away to talk himself out of this situation, because he knows there isn’t any other way. Not when Riko and his father’s men are actually working together, not when he knows that neither of them will stop from breaking all the bones in his body when they feel like it—unless he gives them a reason not to.

“You can’t,” he says, when Lola actually pauses and raises an eyebrow. 

“ _Oh?_ ” she asks, her voice high-pitched and deliberately surprised, inquiring, “And why not? I don’t see what you could do to stop me.”

“I—” Nathaniel takes a breath, tries to calm the racing of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, to ignore the way every breath _hurts_ and how he has to blink red fluid out of his eyes in order to make her out properly. “You’re right. I can’t stop you,” he admits. Gathers his courage and all the careless arrogance he still possesses from watching Riko and his father make themselves look important, the role models he’s been supposed to take after all his life. 

Then: “But I think you don’t want to be the one to make me unable to play. Because Riko doesn’t know that I just signed with the Foxes. And Riko was stupid enough to have their new striker killed just a month ago in a fit of careless jealousy and rage. I mean, the Foxes are known for their bad luck and the backgrounds of their players, but to lose two of their newly signed players within the span of a month? Do you really think that won’t make anyone suspicious? Do you really think Riko was competent and careful enough to completely erase all of his traces? He’s not his father’s son.” 

Lola regards him with a new light in her eyes, shares a look with her brother, clicks her tongue and looks back at Nathaniel. “Oh, but you’re a runner. Maybe you panicked, ran away like a coward; like mother like son. Nobody has to know that you’re … _unavailable_ because of other things.” 

“The Foxes know where I am,” Nathaniel contradicts with his heart in his throat. “They know I just went on a run. They’ll come looking for me if I don’t return soon. Nobody knows who I am, let alone of my reputation as a runner, as you call it. And the only one who does know is exactly the one who’ll realize what has happened to me—and you know Riko will not allow you to touch Kevin Day.” 

“What a clever boy,” Lola singsongs. “A solution for every scenario. Well, then we’ll just have to call your father, let them know of the change of plans. I’m sure he’ll come up with something that hurts just a little more than having your knees capped and your tendons cut. He’s always been a creative bastard, after all.” 

There’s a frightening coldness that takes hold of Nathaniel now, but it’s too late to say anything else. Romero is still pressing his gun against the side of Nathaniel’s knee, and though Jackson has parked the car in an empty lot by now, Nathaniel knows that he’ll be dead as soon as he tries to get out the door, no matter how many pretty tales he spins. So he just stays where he is, rigidly, hot blood dripping down the side of his face and soaking the collar of the orange Fox shirt he’s still wearing, and tries not to think about all the ways this scheme might fail, all the things that could be worse than never being able to run again. 

He flinches, hard, when there’s suddenly something cold pressed against his ear, his restraints biting into his wrists and there’s a small noise of pain that escapes him, immediately followed by the sound of a laugh that makes his heart stutter in his chest, that makes him break out in cold sweat all over, and the salt bites into his fresh wounds, which thankfully is enough to snap him out of that dangerous headspace he’s fallen into for a moment. 

It’s a phone. 

His father isn’t actually here. 

He can’t hurt him—not directly, not physically, not right now. 

But the laugh tells him just how much pain his waiting for him if he doesn’t tread very carefully now. 

Lola seems to have informed Nathan of Nathaniel’s supposed contract and all the accompanying consequences in the short time he was out of it, and Nathan seems to find it more amusing than either of them expected. “Oh Junior,” he says, “I forget how naive you can be if you set your mind to it. You’ll be mine before your precious little season is out—as soon as I’m a free man again, you’re a dead one. But until then, I’ll let you have what you want, and every day you’ll be thinking of what happens when you step a foot out of line, and you’ll be counting down the time until we see each other again. You’ll be wishing you hadn’t put your name on that paper, that you’d just stayed where you were. Don’t even think about running—you’re useless without your mother. And you’ve got a lot of people after you now. You shouldn’t ever forget about that. You’ll listen to what Lola tells you now, and you’ll do exactly what she says. Don’t think that just because I’m in jail I will be stopped from getting to you if you provoke me to do so. Say goodbye to daddy now, and enjoy your _freedom_.”

“Goodbye,” Nathaniel croaks out mostly on instinct, because he knows better than to disobey a direct order, and he forcefully suppresses his shiver when Nathan laughs again, and then the line goes dead. 

“Isn’t it great that the prison guards are so understanding?” Lola asks sweetly. “They know how it is when your child misbehaves, and they wouldn’t dare stop a father from chastising his son.” 

Her grin is awful when she winks at him, and sucks at her finger that’s covered in blood from where she’s been holding the phone against Nathaniel’s ear; his stomach clenches, and there’s bile in his throat, his vision going blurry when he swallows it back down. Now is really, _really_ not the time to show even more weakness. 

“So you signed a contract with the Foxes?” Lola teases, “How wonderful for you. And so curious, that a boy that’s trained all his life with the Ravens, the best team in the league, a boy who’s unmistakably part of the Perfect Court, would suddenly change to the worst team, isn’t it? Just like Kevin Day. The press would have a field day with it—and you will make sure that they do. You will agree to an interview when Katy Ferdinand calls. You will drag the Foxes through the dirt. I don’t care how you do it, but you’ll make sure that everyone who’s got even a minimal idea of what Exy even is, will absolutely despise your precious new team, and Kevin Day with it. You will make sure that they get absolutely shattered when they play against the Ravens, and you’ll destroy Kevin’s career. You will see everything that you ever worked for crash and burn around you, and you will wish to have just kept your mouth shut and stayed where you were, because I’m sure Riko has his own score to settle with you, after all the trouble you’ve put him through, and just remember that you are to listen to you father, and not what that dirty little Moriyama-scum has to say to you, are we clear?”

It’s a wonder that Neil still manages to nod. _Now_ , the paralyzation is setting in, there’s a buzz in his mind that doesn’t allow him to think clearly, a fear so profound he’s surprised he isn’t swallowed up whole by it. 

Vaguely, he realizes that they’re driving again, at full speed this time, his mind hazy and body numb with pain and anger and panic and desperation and resignation and all these other awful things he somehow never manages to get away from. Lola laughs, and she leans over him, shoves open the car door, slashes at his bounds and makes sure to nick the skin one last time, and then, eventually, she gives his unresisting body a hard push. 

It’s a good thing this isn’t the first time Nathaniel falls (or jumps) out of a driving car, because it’s probably only thanks to this instinct that he avoids smashing his head open on the asphalt, that yet another road-burn on his skin and some more bruises are the only things he has to show for it. 

It’s not as fortunate that the rest of him is already damaged enough, because when he eventually comes to a halt, he lies there, dazed, in the middle of the road, and can just about make out the tail-lights of Jackson’s car disappearing down the street and behind a corner. Then there’s another car honk and he rolls out of the way just in time, finds himself on the grassy curb, and promptly throws up. 

Well, fuck. 

 

 

It takes a while to orient himself after that. He needs to get back to where he’s been taken from, since he’s tossed his bag into a convenient bush there and now can only hope that everything’s still there, and then he needs to get to Abby’s house, figure out a way to explain where he was and what’s happened to him just now, and then, somehow, impossibly, convince the Foxes of letting them sign on their team. A piece of cake. Really. 

If only just breathing wouldn’t be so hard. Or painful. 

Nathaniel swallows, gagging at the taste of bile and blood left behind in his mouth and slowly tries to get up. It’s harder than expected, and a wave of dizziness almost makes him lose his balance.

But he can’t stay here. It’s too exposed. Too public. Unpredictable. 

He tries again, drags himself to his feet. He’s swaying slightly, and he’s afraid that the next breeze will be the only thing needed to take him off his feet again. Damn it. Lola really didn’t hold back. Not to mention that he probably overdid it a little even before, playing against the Foxes. 

There’s a bloodstain now where he’s been lying in the grass. Too many wounds from where it might have come from. 

His head wound has stopped bleeding now, though, and that’s something, at least. 

But Nathaniel doesn’t even want to think about what he might look like now. And how people might react when they see him. 

Then again, the sky is starting to darken by now, and if he takes care to stay in the shadows, maybe no one will notice him. Or at least not care when they do. Everyone knows what kind of people are out after dark, after all, and if they think him one of them he’ll have an easier time to pass under the radar. Or so he hopes. 

He’s not quite sure whether it’ll work that way or not. His thoughts are a bit fuzzy, and every now and then the world’s spinning slowly. 

Nathaniel swallows, forces himself to take a deep breath, shove everything that’s just happened into the deepest dungeons of his mind, and stop fucking panicking. There’s enough time for that later. Or when he’s dead. Whichever comes first. 

Then, he looks around, picks a direction and starts walking, hoping that he’ll find back to Abby’s sooner rather than later. He doesn’t know how much longer his legs will hold him up. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot! It actually happens! Yay!
> 
> What do you think of this chapter? Too much, not enough?

**Author's Note:**

> If anything confuses you or something, just leave a comment. Or if you actually like the story and want to see it continued, I'll be more than happy to see kudos and comments!  
> Thanks for reading and your patience.


End file.
